DOh 


&GHUN 


GIFT   OF 
H.  E.    Van  Norman 


UNIVERSITY  FARM 


•    3*'  CALIFORNIA 

r>Avrs 


JOHNNIE 


EPH  THB 
ASTROLOGER 
P.  87 


Johnnie 

by 

E.  O.  Laughlin 


With  Illustrations 
From  Photographs 
Taken  from  Life 

LIBRARY 


"yi.'TVRKSTTY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 

Indianapolis  and  Kansas  City 


Mdcccxcix 


OF  CALIFORMU 

LIBRARY 

BRANCH  OF  THE 
COU.LG2  OF  AGRICULTURE 


COPYRIGHT  1898 

BY 
THE   BOWEN-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  by 

Braunworth,  Munn  &  Barber, 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATED  TO 
JOHNNIE   


Whose  surname  may  be  supplied  by  the  reader 
from  the  throng  of  other  Johnnies, — just  such 
happy-hearted  little  youngsters  as  was  this 
one  of  mine.  THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFATORY 

The  matter  presented  in  this  little  volume 
has  assumed  its  present  form  and  dress  with 
those  mingled  feelings  of  bravado  and  timid- 
ity which  afflict  the  boy  when  he  first  appears 
in  long  pants.  The  distress  of  such  a  boy 
becomes  the  more  evident  the  more  it  is  con- 
cealed. He  is  painfully  conscious  of  being 
mostly  arms  and  legs — and  clothes.  If  he 
swings  along  carelessly,  he  is  afraid  folks  will 
accuse  him  of  "putting  on;"  if  he  adopts  a 
stiff  and  dignified  manner,  as  best  suits  his 
attire,  he  fears  to  appear  awkward;  and,  in 
any  case,  he  is  apt  to  be  overtaken  at  last  by 
the  comfortless  conviction  that  people  are  not 
noticing  him  at  all.  With  these  emotions  and 
others,  the  author  makes  his  bow. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

I.  THE  BOY'S  DEBUT,  .....*••      1 
II.  TEIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 10 

III.  SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 19 

IV.  As  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN, 28 

V.  THE  LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 37 

VI.  VACATION  AMD  CHORES, 47 

VII.  THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "  HA'NTS,"    ....     58 

VIII.  BEING  SICK, 69 

IX.  A  RURAL  SUNDAY, 77 

X.  THE  COUNTY  FAIB 85 

XI.  IN  WINTER, 95 

XII.  CHRISTMAS 104 

XIII.  THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY,      .      «       .      .111 

XIV.  "BUDDING," 123 

XV.  THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS .134 

XVI.  THE  RALLY, „  144 

XVII.  A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT, 154 

XVIII.  A  BOOK  WORM, 163 

XIX.  THE  BOY  INVENTOR, 172 

XX.  WHEN  His  MOTHER  DIED 179 

XXI.  THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT, ,187 

XXII.  LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 196 

XXIII.  A  MISFIT 205 

XXIV.  THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 213 

XXV.  THE  BRAND  NEW  BOY 222 


"O  wonderland  of  wayward  childood  !  what 
An  easy,  breezy  realm  of  summer  calm 
And  dreamy  gleam  and  gloom  and  bloom  and  balm 
Thou  art  !  — The  Lotus-Land  the  poet  sung — 
It  is  the  Child-World,  when  the  heart  beats  young." 

— RlLEY. 


JOHNNIE 


THE   BOY'S   DEBUT 

IT  was  in  the  morning  of  the  first  day  of 
school.  The  boys  had  collected  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  yard,  where  they  were  industri- 
ously taking  turns  at  wrestling  with  the  "new 
boy"  with  the  intent  of  determining  once  for 
all  his  proper  place  in  the  social  scale  of  the 
district.  The  girls,  in  blue-checked  and  red- 
plaid  pinafores,  were  grouped  upon  the  stile, 
their  arms  sweetly  encircling  one  another's 
waists,  while  they  made  scornful  remarks 
about  the  "new  girl,"  a  shy,  frail  midget  in 
drooping  black  sunbonnet,  who  stood  sadly 
apart  grasping  a  battered  dinner-pail,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground. 

"Well,    'pon    my   word,    here  comes    an- 
other!"   exclaimed   one  of  the  larger  girls, 
glancing  up    the  road,  "who  can  it  be?     I 
thought  everybody  was  here." 
i 


THE  BOY'S  DEBUT 

No  one  was  actually  in  sight  as  yet ;  but  far 
up  the  road  there  approached  a  revolving, 
pyramidal  pillar  of  dust,  such  as  only  a  school- 
boy or  a  run-away  horse  could  produce.  On 
it  came,  swaying  and  wavering  like  a  minia- 
ture whirlwind,  and  the  girls  went  gingerly 
out  to  meet  it.  As  it  drew  near,  the  wraith  of 
a  round,  smiling  face  could  be  discerned,  a 
faint  nucleus  floating  in  the  midst  of  the  yel- 
low nimbus.  Then  a  dust-covered  waist  was 
revealed  below  the  face,  and,  finally,  two  tiny 
twinkling  feet.  The  nucleus  suddenly  halted 
opposite  the  school-house,  and,  as  the  dust 
dissolved  and  drifted  away,  a  fixed  and  mask- 
like  grin  took  the  place  of  the  smile.  It  was 
another  new  scholar,  and  the  girls  immedi- 
ately gathered  about  him  with  the  curiosity 
of  fawns  and  women. 

"I  believe  it's  Mrs.  Winkle's  little  boy," 
observed  one.  "What  is  your  name,  dear?" 

"Jawnnie  Winkle,  'nl'm  six  years  old,"  he 
recited  promptly  with  automatic  solemnity, 
putting  on  the  grinning  mask  again  with  a 
smirk  as  soon  as  he  finished.  His  mother 
had  drilled  him  all  morning  upon  this  phrase 
2 


THE  BOY'S  DEBUT 

so  that  he  might  properly  introduce  himself 
to  the  teacher,  and  he  had  repeated  it  with 
every  step  as  he  came  careening  down  the 
road.  The  bevy  of  girls  pressed  closer,  and 
one  bent  over  and  tried  to  kiss  him.  Without 
changing  his  expression  he  "ducked"  and 
dodged  through  the  phalanx  of  skirts  with 
the  celerity  of  a  weasel.  Stopping  at  some 
distance  he  suddenly  thrust  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  brought  forth  a  panting,  half- 
dead  toad. 

"Say,  this'll  make  warts!"  he  exclaimed 
with  dilating  eyes. 

"Why  Johnnie  Winkle!"  cried  the  girls  in 
dismay.  "Throw  that  nasty  thing  away! 
Ain't  you  ashamed?" 

"I  don't  keer,"  he  laughed,  "I  like  'em, 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  have  warts  on  both  hands 
an'  on  my  toes,  too,"  and  sitting  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  he  proceeded  to  rub 
the  batrachian  over  his  feet.  Then  there 
came  a  jangle  of  bells  and  a  pell-mell  rush  for 
the  school-room.  When,  a  few  moments  later, 
the  teacher  looked  up  in  the  full  glow  of  her 
new-found  dignity,  her  subjects  had  all  pre- 
3 


THE  BOY'S   DEBUT 

empted  their  claims.  Every  back  seat  had 
from  two  to  four  occupants,  and  the  fore- 
ground contained  only  Johnnie  and  the  new 
girl,  who  in  their  innocence  had  taken  a  seat 
side  by  side  directly  under  her  nose. 

It  was  Johnnie's  first  appearance — his  ini- 
tial journey  out  into  the  world.  Heretofore 
every  bit  of  wisdom  he  had  acquired  had  been 
nursed  from  his  mother's  breast,  and  all  his 
naughtiness  had  arisen  spontaneously  from 
within;  but  now  his  first  great  epoch  had  ar- 
rived, and  henceforth  he  was  to  win  the  wis- 
dom of  the  world  by  his  own  effort  and  be- 
come familiar  with  wickedness  by  contact 
with  life.  It  was  with  such  regretful  reflec- 
tions that  his  mother  had  started  him  school- 
ward  that  morning  and  then  gone  sobbing 
into  the  house.  It  was  with  the  shade  of  a 
similar  thought,  too,  that  the  teacher  looked 
down  into  the  depths  of  his  blue  eyes  as  he 
grinned  shyly  up  at  her ;  but  Johnnie  himself 
was  oppressed  by  no  dismal  forebodings.  His 
mind  was  completely  occupied  with  the  nov- 
elties and  wonders  about  him.  His  name  and 
age  were  soon  successfully  imparted  to  the 
4 


THE  BOY'S   DEBUT 

teacher,  and  this  having  been  impressed  upon 
him  as  the  paramount  duty  to  be  performed, 
he  felt  himself  free  to  look  about.  The  huge 
blackboards  and  gay-colored  maps  upon  the 
wall,  the  queer  seat  he  occupied,  the  teacher, 
the  pupils,  the  droning  stillness,  the  cracks  in 
the  floor,  the  toad  in  his  pocket,  all  drew  his 
attention  by  turns. 

Gradually  the  steady  monotony  of  school 
life  completely  possessed  him,  and  the  day 
grew  long  and  drowsy.  Little  twinges  of 
homesickness  contorted  his  features  towards 
evening,  but  he  was  brave,  and  would  have 
held  out  firmly  except  for  an  untoward  cir- 
cumstance. The  toad,  which  he  had  secretly 
cherished  in  his  pocket  all  day,  died,  and  at 
recess  an  older  boy  informed  him  gravely  that 
this  disaster  would  cause  his  father's  cows  to 
give  bloody  milk.  Such  a  distressing  calam- 
ity was  too  much  for  his  already  tremulous 
emotions,  and  he  broke  down.  Kind  words 
on  the  part  of  the  big  girls  were  unavailing ; 
even  the  gentle  teacher  could  not  comfort 
him. 

"I  want  to  go-o-o  home!'*  he  sobbed, and 
5 


THE  BOY'S   DEBUT 

home  he  went.  Long  and  weary  was  the  way. 
The  very  dust  seemed  heavy  and  cheerless, 
and  he  would  have  cried  all  the  way  but  that 
he  was  alone.  The  most  lavish  boy  will  not 
waste  many  tears  on  the  desert  air.  Once  he 
thought  he  saw  a  snake,  and  after  that  he  im- 
agined it  was  trailing  close  at  his  heels,  thus 
adding  a  new  terror  to  his  burden.  As  he 
came  by  the  pasture  he  noticed  the  cows 
calmly  munching  grass,  apparently  unmindful 
of  the  dire  spell  upon  them,  and  the  tears 
started  afresh  as  he  thought  of  their  blame- 
less innocence  and  his  own  guilt.  He  said 
nothing  about  the  true  cause  of  his  perturba- 
tion at  home,  but  after  milking-time  ex- 
amined the  crocks  with  stealthy  care.  No 
blood  could  be  detected,  yet  his  faith  in  the 
potency  of  the  murdered  toad  was  unshaken. 
It  is  the  boy's  characteristic  to  believe  strange 
things  steadfastly  where  he  can  not  prove,  or 
where  he  can  disprove.  The  bona  fide  ap- 
pearance of  several  warts  upon  his  hands 
within  the  week  demonstrated  the  power  of 
the  living  creature  beyond  peradventure. 
The  melancholy  and  somewhat  unheroic 
6 


THE  BOY'S  DEBUT 

ending  of  his  first  day  at  school  made  John- 
nie resolve  never  to  go  again.  But  he  was 
forcefully  persuaded  to  reconsider  the  matter 
next  morning  and  he  set  out  once  more  with 
a  bold  heart. 

Thereafter  he  speedily  developed  into  a 
genuine  school-boy — a  species  of  urchin  dis- 
tinctively and  everlastingly  differing  from  the 
home-boy.  That  he  acquired  knowledge  can 
not  be  denied,  but  that  he  made  any  con- 
scious effort  to  do  so  is  extremely  doubtful. 
The  average  small  boy  in  school  spends  one- 
fifth  of  his  time  looking  out  at  the  window, 
one-fourth  in  dreaming  and  one-half  in  mis- 
cellaneous mischief.  The  remainder  is  de- 
voted to  his  studies. 

As  time  went  on,  Johnnie,  being  a  boy  of 
some  native  originality,  dreamed  all  sorts  of 
things  and  invented  several  new  forms  of  mis- 
chief. One  of  his  favorite  ways  of  amusing  him- 
self was  to  borrow  a  tremendous  "jargaphy" 
from  one  of  the  older  girls  and  study  its  illustra- 
tions or  make  imaginary  journeys  across  the 
maps,  which  he  vaguely  knew  represented  the 
big  world  outdoors.  As  he  became  better 
7 


THE  BOY'S  DEBUT 

versed  in  geographical  matters,  he  learned  that 
England  was  a  red  country,  that  Germany  was 
blue  and  that  Italy  was  boot-shaped  and 
green.  He  discovered  yellow  and  purple  and 
beautiful  pink  countries  also  here  and  there, 
and  pictured  their  marvelous  radiance  to 
himself  by  the  hour.  When  the  contempla- 
tion of  these  wonders  grew  tiresome,  the  huge 
book  made  a  splendid  screen  behind  which 
he  could  retire  to  indulge  in  pleasant  diver- 
sions. 

Johnnie  made  remarkable  progress  in  the 
art  of  reading.  Within  a  few  weeks  he  could 
read  quite  as  well  off  the  book  as  on.  After 
noting  the  pictorial  part  of  the  lesson  for  an 
instant,  he  would  look  towards  the  ceiling 
and  chant,  '  'The — cat  is — on  the — mat ; "  or, 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  teacher  exclaim  em- 
phatically, "I  see  a  fat  hen!" 

Spelling  was  a  particularly  delightful  vocal 
exercise  to  him,  and  he  would  wriggle  and 
squirm  and  twist  his  fingers  ecstatically  as  he 
sang,  "sa-ty,  cat,  ba-ty,  bat,  ra-ty,  rat, 
ta-ty,  tat,  za-ty,  zat" — and  he  could  have 
gone  still  farther  if  the  alphabet  had  held  out. 
8 


THE  BOY'S   DEBUT 

Penmanship  he  found  more  difficult.  The 
arbitrary  way  in  which  "pot-hooks"  had  to 
be  made  perplexed  him ;  and  in  following  the 
elusive  copy  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  call 
into  play  every  muscle  in  his  body,  contort- 
ing his  toes  and  twisting  his  tongue  convul- 
sively with  each  right  or  left  curve. 

In  the  main,  school  life  was  running  smooth- 
ly enough  for  Johnnie;  but,  alas,  he  had  yet 
to  experience  his  first  fight,  his  first  flogging 
and  his  first  embryonic  love  affair. 


II 

TRIALS    AND  TRIBULATIONS 

JOHNNIE,  being  a  very  important  member 
of  a  small  family,  was  somewhat  spoiled.  A 
few  days  at  school  sufficed  to  indicate  a  cer- 
tain unseemly  air  of  pride  and  superiority 
about  him.  This  was  evinced  more  espe- 
cially in  his  manners  and  general  appearance. 
Instead  of  the  blue  "hickory"  shirt  and  jeans 
trousers  of  his  mates,  he  wore  a  starched  cam- 
bric waist  and  cloth  knickerbockers.  His 
face  was  clean  and  his  hair  combed  each 
morning.  Moreover,  now  and  then  he  used 
strange,  grammatical  forms  of  speech.  Once 
he  said,  "I  saw  a  bird-nest."  Whereupon 
he  was  greeted  by  the  jeering  query,  "Did 
ye  saw  it  clean  in  two?"  Ah,  woefully  out 
of  place  is  boyish  aristocracy  in  the  demo- 
cratic public  school ! 

His  peculiarities  came  more  and  more  into 
10 


TRIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 

notice  as  time  passed,  and  the  other  boys 
took  to  calling  him  "girly."  They  also 
made  faces  at  him  and  thumped  him  and 
wallowed  him  in  the  dirt  for  his  pride 's  sake. 
Being  by  nature  non-combatant,  Johnnie  put 
up  with  this  contumely  in  meekness,  for  some 
time,  answering  jeers  with  grins  and  spiteful 
words  with  silent  tears ;  but  there  came  a  day 
when  forbearance  grew  exhausted.  Jimmy 
Jenks  proved  to  be  the  last  straw.  Jimmy 
was  a  little  wisp  of  impudence  and  vicious- 
ness  of  Johnnie's  own  age,  but  belonging  to 
the  opposite  extreme  of  Boydom.  He  had 
the  cheeks  of  a  pig,  the  beady  eyes  of  a  rat 
and  a  suggestively  Simian  occiput,  mounted 
by  a  shock  of  bristling  red  hair.  With  these 
conglomerate  features,  his  mental  and  moral 
attributes  corresponded  to  a  nicety.  It  was 
one  recess  that  he  made  his  first  and  last  at- 
tack upon  Johnnie.  Johnnie  was  in  the  best 
of  humors  as  he  approached  the  group  of 
boys  behind  the  school  building  and  breath- 
lessly began  to  introduce  what  he  expected 
would  be  a  delightful  bit  of  information  with : 
"Say!" 

ii 


TRIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 

"Aw,  say  't  yourself,  ye've  got  yer  mouth 
open,"  drawled  Jimmy,  stepping  forward. 

Johnnie's  mouth  immediately  closed  droop- 
ingly. 

"Ye're  a  purty  feller,  durn  ye,"  continued 
Jimmy,  still  advancing,  "an'  ye  darsn'  take 
it  up!" 

Johnnie  backed  away  and  the  whole  crowd 
began  hooting  him  and  urging  his  adversa- 
ry on. 

"Cowardy!  Cowardy-calf !  "  they  cried, 
and  "that's  right,  Reddy;  give  it  to  him!" 

"I  double  dare  ye,"  exclaimed  Jimmy 
scornfully,  "an'  if  ye'll  take  a  double  dare, 
ye '11  steal  a  hog  an'  eat  the  hair!" 

Johnnie  was  growing  pale  and  restless.  He 
dug  his  toes  into  the  ground  and  clenched  his 
hands.  Jimmy  leaned  forward  and  valiantly 
tapped  him  on  the  cheek.  Then  Johnnie  fled, 
Jimmy  was  at  his  heels,  and  a  hilarious  yell 
went  up  from  the  other  boys  as  they  joined  in 
the  chase.  Suddenly  they  brought  up  at  the 
back  fence,  and  Johnnie  was  compelled  to 
face  his  foe.  Further  retreat  was  impossible. 

"Look  out  now,  Reddy;  I'm  goin'  to 
12 


TRIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 

fight,"  warned  Johnnie;  and  fight  he  did. 
There  was  not  much  science  in  the  battle,  but 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  fury.  All  the  jibes 
and  slights  and  snubs  of  many  days  welled  up 
in  Johnnie's  breast,  and  made  a  hero  of  him. 
Jimmy  was  thrown  to  the  ground,  was  chug- 
ged, was  pinched  and  slapped  and  finally  sat 
upon  in  the  region  of  the  stomach  and 
churned. 

'  'Now,  I  guess  you'll  behave  yourself, ' '  ob- 
served Johnnie,  pausing  astride  his  victim. 
Then  came  the  teacher. 

"Boys!  Boys!"  she  shrieked;  and  the 
battle  was  ended. 

"Recalled  me  names!"  bawled  Jimmy, 
when  the  trouble  was  under  investigation  be- 
hind closed  doors  that  evening. 

"What  did  he  call  you,  James?"  asked  the 
teacher. 

"Why,  he-he  cussed  an'  called  me  R-r-red- 

dy." 

"Johnnie,  what  have  you  to  say  to  this?" 
"Nothin'." 

"You  may  step  this  way,  Johnnie,"  came 
the  stern  command. 

13 


TRIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 

The  boy  outside  at  the  key-hole  clapped 
his  hands  softly  as  he  whispered  to  his  mates, 
"By  Hoky,  Girly's  game!  He  ain't  even 
whimpered." 

Whack,  whack,  whack  went  the  whip  with- 
in. Then  there  was  a  lull,  but  no  sound  of 
sobs  could  be  heard. 

"Now  it's  Reddy's  turn,"  said  the  boy 
expectantly. 

"O  teacher,  O — boo-hoo — I  couldn't  help 
it — he  pitched  onto  me, — Oh,  my  back's  aw- 
ful sore  an'  I  got  biles  on  my  legs.  Oh,  please, 
please  don't,  teacher, — "  thus  wailed  Jimmy 
and  the  boy  at  the  key-hole  danced  gleefully 
until  pushed  aside  by  a  companion,  when  he 
rolled  on  the  grass  and  hugged  himself  and 
kicked  up  his  heels. 

Johnnie  Winkle  was  straightway  placed  up- 
on a  pedestal  by  his  admiring  school-mates, 
and  the  porcine  Jimmy  became  his  high 
priest.  But  there  was  a  sorrowful  sequel  to 
the  flogging.  Johnnie's  mother  had  often 
assured  him  that  if  he  ever  got  a  whipping  at 
school  he  would  get  another  at  home.  This 
threat  caused  him  to  be  very  reticent  about 

14 


TRIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 

the  affair,  and  his  silence  might  have  saved 
him  had  not  his  cousin,  Elmira  Mulkins,  gone 
home  with  him  on  Friday  night.  She  was  a 
girl  of  confidential  ways.  She  confidentially 
told  Johnnie  on  the  way  home  that  she  would 
say  nothing  about  his  trouble,  and  then  confi- 
dentially informed  Mrs.  Winkle  of  the  whole 
affair.  A  double  punishment  was  the  result. 
The  long-suffering  Johnnie  was  whipped  for 
getting  whipped  at  school,  and  sent  to  bed 
supperless  for  not  telling  about  it.  And  it  all 
happened  because  he  had  resented  an  unpro- 
voked insult. 

The  boy's  sense  of  justice  is  very  keen. 
When  punished  for  downright  remissness  he 
accepts  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  one  sin- 
gle "lick  amiss"  puts  him  out  of  joint  with 
the  entire  system  of  domestic  government — 
legislative,  judicial  and  executive.  Johnnie's 
state  of  mind,  as  he  limped  off  to  bed,  was 
desperate.  So  rebellious  was  his  mood  that 
he  deliberately  omitted  saying  his  prayer,  and 
went  to  bed  without  washing  his  feet.  He 
kicked  all  the  cover  off  the  bed,  and  had  a 
notion  to  die.  There  was  some  consolation 
15 


TRIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 

in  picturing  his  mother's  grief  and  the  dis- 
tress of  his  teacher  when  he  should  be  dis- 
covered next  morning,  beaten  and  starved 
and  frozen  to  death.  But  so  overwrought  was 
his  childish  imagination  that  he  soon  passed 
from  the  mere  conception  to  the  absolute  con- 
viction of  impending  dissolution.  Then  he 
grew  frightened.  Pouncing  out  of  bed  he  re- 
peated his  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep" 
anxiously  on  penitent  knees.  This  solemn 
duty  having  been  performed  he  felt  more 
calm,  and  once  more  took  up  the  thread  of 
vengeful  thoughts. 

Probably  his  wounded  spirit  would  take  its 
upward  flight  about  midnight,  when  the  house 
was  still  and  all  were  sleeping;  but  in  case  it 
did  not — in  case  he  should  open  his  eyes  up- 
on the  cruel  world  again  to-morrow,  he  re- 
solved to  run  away.  It  had  come  to  this. 
There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  be  a  good  boy 
in  a  community  where  the  wicked  were  par- 
doned, while  the  upright  were  trodden  in  the 
dust.  He  searched  through  his  meager  knowl- 
edge of  geography  for  a  clime  that  would  suit 
him,  and  finally  hit  upon  Ethiopia.  He  would 
16 


TRIALS  AND  TRIBULATIONS 

take  a  box  of  shoe  polish  along,  and  blacking 
his  face,  become  a  fierce  little  cannibal  boy 
and  a  heathen,  and  if  missionaries  from  dark 
America  came  fooling  around  he  would  help 
eat  'em. 

With  this  soothing  reflection  he  fell  asleep. 
He  proved  to  be  still  alive  next  morning,  and 
so  very  hungry  that  he  decided  to  take  break- 
fast once  more  with  his  obdurate  parents. 

But  he  remained  silent  and  sullen,  and 
slipped  the  shoe  polish  into  his  pocket  omi- 
nously on  the  first  opportunity.  Before  go- 
ing, however,  he  concluded  to  give  cousin 
Elmira  a  crushing  farewell. 

"You'll  be  sorry  for  what  you  done  'fore 
long,  Smarty,"  he  began  reproachfully  as 
soon  as  he  found  her  alone. 

"Now,  Johnnie,"  replied  the  girl  tearfully, 
"I  didn't  mean  to — to — " 

"Yes  you  did.  D'ye  see  that?"  and  he 
produced  the  box  of  blacking.  "That's  to 
black  my  face  with  when  I  git  to  be  a  wild 
cannibal,"  and  he  tried  to  look  terrible. 

"Oh,  Johnnie  Winkle!" 

"Yes — I'm  goin'  to  run  off,"  he  went  on 
2  17 


TRIALS  ANt)  tklBULATlONS 

desperately,  "I'm  goin'  to  Ethiopia  an'  kill 
an'  eat  people  up,  an'  you  caused  it  all,  too," 
he  added  chokingly  as  the  pathos  of  the  situ- 
ation overcame  him,  "an'  you're  a  mean 
thing ! ' ' 

"Johnnie  Winkle,  I'll  tell  your  maw!" 
"Yes,  you're  nothin'  but  a  reg'lar  tattle- 
tale,  doggone  it!" 

"Oh-h,  an'  I'll  tell  her  you  swore!" 
This  dreadful  slip  of  profanity  turned  the 
tide.  In  order  to  persuade  Elmira  not  to  tell 
of  it,  Johnnie  was  forced  to  promise — "hope 
to  die" — that  he  would  not  run  away — this 
time,  at  least.  Moreover  he  consented  to  do 
penance  by  "playing  house"  with  her,  and 
was  kind  and  gentle  all  day  long. 


18 


Ill 

SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

CHILDHOOD  is  emphatically  a  time  of  ac- 
tion, and  yet  essentially  a  season  of  dreams. 
The  boy's  brain  is  as  nimble  and  restless  as 
his  body.  He  is  always  thinking,  thinking, 
and  the  number  of  facts  at  his  command  is  so 
limited  that  he  is  constantly  compelled  to  re- 
sort to  fancies  for  mental  aliment.  The  nine- 
year-old's  store  of  absolute  knowledge  is  very 
lean.  "The  earth  is  round  like  a  ball  or  an 
orange.  It  rotates  on  its  axis  and  has  a  pole 
at  each  end."  He  has  seen  axes  and  poles; 
and  here  his  imagination  steps  in  and  draws 
the  mental  picture  of  a  huge  yellow  orange, 
with  a  telegraph  pole  protruding  from  each 
end  and  resting  on  a  pile  of  polished  axes. 

Whichever  way  he  turns  it  is  the  same.  A 
few  inconsistent  and  distorted  facts  are  given 
him,  out  of  which  fancy  proceeds  to  weave  a 
19 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

queer  fabric  of  consistent  but  erroneous  con- 
ceptions. 

Day  after  day  he  puts  the  one  great  unan- 
swerable query,  "Why?"  He  asks  it  of  him- 
self, of  the  beasts  of  the  field,  the  fowls  of  the 
air ;  he  enquires  of  his  omniscient  parents ; 
and  the  replies  he  receives — what  are  they? 
The  seasons  change,  the  squirrels  go  on  sort- 
ing the  good  nuts  from  the  bad,  the  birds 
build  their  nests  and  sing  and  fly  away  and 
his  father  says,  "never  mind!" 

Perhaps  the  real  knowledge  of  his  elders  is 
not  so  far  in  excess  of  his  own;  but  men 
have  become  accustomed  to  their  own  igno- 
rance, they  have  accepted  the  immutable  rela- 
tionship of  things,  have  separated  the  natur- 
al from  the  supernatural ,  and  attained ' ' poise . ' ' 
They  have  learned  to  crawl  and  abandoned 
all  hope  of  flying.  But  to  the  boy,  all  things 
are  strange  and  contradictory.  To  him  the 
probable,  the  possible  and  the  impossible  are 
confusingly  alike  and  confoundingly  different. 

Out  of  his  heterogeneous  stock  of  fact  and 
fancy,  he  compiles  a  philosophy  all  his  own ; 
and  there  are  few  things  indeed,  in  heaven 
20 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

and  earth,  of  which  his  philosophy  never 
dreams. 

No  two  children  have  quite  the  same  code, 
or  see  the  same  visions ;  but  they  are  dream- 
ers, all. 

Johnnie  Winkle's  mental  vagaries  were 
boundless.  He  was  always  wondering  and 
wishing.  On  the  way  to  school  he  saw  a 
hawk  so  high  in  the  air  that  it  seemed  a  mere 
gray  speck  against  the  azure.  He  sat  down 
at  the  roadside  and  followed  it  with  envious 
eyes.  He  wished  he  could  fly,  and  wondered 
why  he  could  not.  Why  should  a  vicious  bird 
of  prey  be  permitted  to  soar  among  the 
clouds,  while  a  nice  little  boy,  who  attended 
Sunday-school  regularly  and  obeyed  his  par- 
ents, had  to  trudge  along  in  the  dust?  If 
boys  could  not  learn  to  fly,  why  was  he  a 
boy?  Why  wasn't  the  hawk  a  boy  and  the 
boy  a  hawk?  How  pleasant  to  be  a  baby- 
hawk,  with  nothing  to  do  from  day  to  day  but 
lounge  about  in  a  downy  nest  and  eat  worms 
and  grow  feathers !  And  to  know  that  some 
day  you  could  go  sailing  away,  away,  oh, 
everywhere !  Sometimes  it  was  a  squirrel 
21 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

that  he  envied,  sometimes  a  mouse.  The 
happy  lot  of  the  little  fledgling  chicken  he 
particularly  coveted .  How  inexpressibly  cozy 
it  must  be  at  bed-time  to  creep  under  the  hen 
— mamma's  soft  wing,  and  chirp  one's  self 
asleep ! 

Having  formulated  the  wish,  the  fairy  wand 
of  fancy  would  often  come  to  his  aid  with 
magic  make-believes.  Flapping  his  arms,  he 
would  give  a  glad  cry  and  go  soaring  down 
the  road,  with  bird-like  grace  and  lightness, 
finally  to  perch  on  the  school-yard  fence  and 
plume  his  wings  and  sing.  Now  and  then 
he  would  come  to  school  in  the  guise  of  a 
horse  or  a  cow.  He  was  frequently  trans- 
formed into  a  fox  or  a  rabbit  and  not  seldom 
impersonated  a  whole  pack  of  hounds.  On 
occasions  he  even  became  an  engine  and  train 
of  cars,  puffing  and  whistling  laboriously. 

Johnnie  was  a  dreamer,  with  plenty  of  time 
and  material  for  dreams ;  but  his  imaginings 
were  not  always  of  this  idle  and  extravagant 
nature.  Slowly  as  the  days  passed,  there 
sprouted  odd  little  germs  of  sentiment  within 
his  breast.  From  the  first  day  at  school  he 

22 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

had  formed  childish  prejudices  for  and  against 
certain  of  his  mates ;  but  now  he  began  to  feel 
a  strange  awkward  attachment  for  a  particu- 
lar Big  Girl,  which  was  more  than  a  mere 
liking.  She  was  a  large,  luminous  miss  of 
about  twice  Johnnie's  age.  Her  name  was 
Alice  Jones,  a  remarkably  sweet  name, 
thought  he.  It  was  she  who  had  startled  him 
by  an  attempt  to  kiss  him  on  the  morning  of  his 
first  appearance,  and  he  was  more  frightened 
than  ever  now  when  he  looked  back  at  the 
occurrence.  It  seemed  to  Johnnie  that  if 
she  should  ever  actually  kiss  him,  he  would 
surely  collapse  with  embarrassment  and  rapt- 
ure. 

He  fell  to  dreaming  largely  of  Alice,  and 
would  sit  and  stare  at  her  "in  time  of  school" 
long  and  worshipfully.  Whenever  his  eyes 
chanced  to  meet  hers,  however,  he  would 
wince  and  blush  guiltily,  turning  it  off  as  best 
he  could  by  smiling  stupidly  at  the  "new 
girl"  who  sat  near  Alice,  and  whom  he  really 
detested. 

In  this  way  Johnnie  went  on  for  weeks.  At 
length  the  conviction  became  fixed  that  he 
23 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

ought  to  declare  his  passion  in  some  way ; 
and  instinct  and  observation  alike  pointed  to 
writing  her  a  note  as  the  easiest  and  safest 
plan.  It  was  a  weighty  and  laborious  matter 
and  he  consumed  much  time  and  paper  be- 
fore he  was  able  to  produce  a  satisfactory  dec- 
laration, which  ran  thus : 

Dear  allie  sum  loves  i  and  sum  loves  2,  But  I  love  i 
and  that  is  you.  Yours  truly,  J.  W. 

He  folded  it  carefully  and  stowed  it  away 
in  his  pocket  to  await  the  time  when  courage 
and  opportunity  should  be  ripe  for  its  deliv- 
ery. But  Johnnie's  pocket  was  a  precarious 
place  for  a  note.  The  constant  friction  of 
pebbles,  and  nails,  and  pencils,  and  chalk 
made  it  age  rapidly,  and  when  at  last  it  was 
fondly  deposited  between  the  pages  of  Alice's 
geography,  borrowed  for  the  purpose,  it 
looked  more  like  an  ancient  bit  of  papyrus 
than  a  modern  love-tale.  It  was  no  wonder, 
under  these  conditions,  that  the  fair  Alice 
failed  to  grasp  its  import  and  thoughtlessly 
tossed  it  to  the  floor.  Johnnie  saw  her  do  it 
and  his  heart  sank.  He  winked  and  glared 
24 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

at  her,  and  pointed  to  the  note  until  he  per- 
spired, but  she  only  smiled  cheerily  back  at 
him.  He  resorted  to  all  manner  of  panto- 
mime to  no  avail,  and  finally  in  utter  desper- 
ation attempted  to  creep  across  the  floor  and 
rescue  it  while  the  teacher's  back  was  turned. 

'  'Johnnie  Winkle, ' '  cried  the  teacher  sharp- 
ly, before  he  was  half  across,  "come  here! 
Now  you  may  explain  what  you  were  doing 
on  the  floor." 

"Lookin'  for  my — my  pencil,"  he  gasped 
in  terror. 

"Has  any  one  seen  Johnnie's  pencil?"  she 
asked,  turning  to  the  school. 

"It's  here,  on  his  desk,"  piped  the  boy 
who  sat  behind  him. 

Johnnie  registered  avow  to  thrash  that  boy. 

"You  may  take  your  seat  and  remain  after 
school,"  said  the  teacher. 

In  the  meantime  the  "new  girl"  had  dis- 
covered the  ill-fated  note,  and  was  decipher- 
ing its  contents  with  pleasant  thrills.  But  her 
name  was  not  "allie,"  and  as  she  read  it 
again  it  dawned  upon  her  that  it  had  been  in- 
tended for  other  eyes.  Then  her  heart  closed 
25 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

like  a  clam.  Placing  the  grimy  bit  of  paper 
in  her  spelling  book,  she  approached  the 
teacher's  desk  and,  after  a  feint  of  asking  how 
to  pronounce  a  certain  word,  slipped  the  note 
into  the  teacher's  hand. 

"That's  what  he  was  huntin',"  she  whis- 
pered scornfully. 

Johnnie  observed  that  the  note  was  gone, 
but  dared  not  guess  its  fate.  Perhaps  Alice 
had  found  it  after  all,  and  hugging  this  hope 
and  fear  he  awaited  developments. 

As  the  other  scholars  filed  out  he  looked 
with  furtive  anxiety  toward  the  teacher,  and 
was  reassured  to  note  a  mild  twinkle  in  her 
eyes.  Possibly  his  punishment  was  not  to  be 
so  very  severe.  At  length  she  came  and  sat 
down  at  his  side.  Producing  a  scrap  of  pa- 
per, "I  wish  you  would  write  your  initials  for 
me,  Johnnie,"  she  said  kindly.  That  was 
easy  enough ;  but  since  she  was  so  good  he 
would  take  great  pains.  He  ran  his  tongue 
out  and  proceeded  slowly,  scrupulously — with 
as  great  care  as  when  inditing  the  note  to 
Alice. 

"That  is  excellent,"  said  the  teacher  ap- 
26 


SOME  BOYISH  DREAMS 

provingly.  "It  looks  very  much  like  this, 
too,  does  it  not?"  and  she  thrust  the  dread- 
ful note  under  his  nose.  It  was  terrible. 
Johnnie  could  not  stir — could  not  lift  his  eyes 
from  the  accusing  missive — could  not  even 
clear  his  throat.  His  entire  vitality  seemed 
to  have  been  diverted  to  blushes. 

"Did  you  write  it,  Johnnie?" 

It  would  be  gratifying  to  be  able  to  state 
that  Johnnie  replied  bravely  in  the  affirma- 
tive. But  Johnnie  was  not  a  model;  he  was 
just  a  boy,  and  he  answered  sheepishly  but 
resolutely,  "No'm."  And  the  teacher,  right- 
ly guessing  that  his  conscience  would  visit 
sufficient  retribution  upon  him,  let  him  go. 


27 


IV 

AS   FATHER   OF  THE   MAN 

PERHAPS  the  one  theme  which  furnished 
Johnnie  the  broadest  field  for  speculation,  and 
supplied  the  tissue  for  his  richest  dreams,  was 
what  he  would  do  when  a  man.  At  different 
stages  of  his  boyhood  he  aspired  to  almost 
every  craft  and  calling,  and  resolved  to  ac- 
complish all  sorts  of  things  from  murder  to 
missionary  work.  Few  of  his  intentions  for 
the  future  were  at  all  fixed.  Most  of  them 
depended  upon  some  particular  mood,  and 
were  subject  to  daily  revision.  There  was 
but  one  thing  that  he  was  steadfastly  sure  he 
did  not  want  to  be,  and  that  was — a  boy. 

Among  his  earliest  and  most  revered  he- 
roes, whose  example  he  longed  to  emulate, 
was  the  threshing-machine  man.  This  man 
was  jolly  and  wise — was  always  saying  things 
at  which  people  laughed,  and  knew  all  about 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

the  wonderful  thresher,  inside  and  out.  More- 
over, he  was  "boss,"  and  only  worked  when 
he  liked.  Johnnie  watched  him  worshipfully 
whenever  the  machine  came  upon  the  Winkle 
place.  At  the  wave  of  his  brawny  hand  every 
wheel  started  and  stopped.  If  any  thing  went 
wrong  he  knew  exactly  how  to  adjust  it.  He 
would  even  crawl  calmly  under  or  inside  of 
the  monster  machine  sometimes,  and  this  was 
a  feat  to  be  admired  and  envied,  indeed. 
Then,  when  the  threshing  was  under  way — 
when  the  vibrating  riddles  kept  time  to  the 
whirling  cylinder's  eerie  song,  till  the  very 
ground  quaked  and  trembled  with  awe,  how 
airily  he  would  grasp  a  huge  oil  can  and  go 
climbing  here  and  there  amongst  the  maze  of 
moving  belts  and  pulleys,  and  no  one  dared 
tell  him  not  to.  For  days  after  his  departure 
Johnnie  nursed  the  one  ambition  to  become  a 
famous  threshing-machine  man. 

But  when  he  grew  somewhat  acquainted 
with  the  lot  of  the  locomotive  engineer  his 
desires  took  a  decided  turn  in  that  direction, 
and  he  began  to  dream  of  the  delights  of 
driving  an  engine  across  the  country,  with 
29 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

nothing  to  do  but  to  ride  and  blow  the  whis- 
tle. What  an  endless  holiday  such  a  life 
must  be !  Still,  he  would  like  to  be  a  brake- 
man,  too,  because  the  brakeman  could  run 
along  the  tops  of  the  moving  cars. 

Once  there  came  a  wonderful  temperance 
revival,  and  Johnnie  straightway  relinquished 
all  other  aspirations,  and  wished  only  to  be- 
come a  reformed  drunkard.  It  would  be  so 
good  and  grand  to  be  able  to  travel  about  de- 
nouncing rum,  preaching  salvation  and  telling 
what  a  bad  man  he  had  once  been.  To  stand 
before  charmed  audiences  and  wave  one's 
hands  and  call  everybody  sisters  and  breth- 
ren, to  provoke  smiles  and  tears  at  will,  to 
pour  alcohol  over  eggs  and  show  how  it 
cooked  them,  to  repeat  the  story  of  the  man 
adrift  on  the  raging  river,  and  describe  the 
terrible  plunge  over  the  falls — ah !  it  would 
be  glorious !  Johnnie  practiced  temperance 
oratory  secretly  in  the  barn  at  every  oppor- 
tunity, and  preached  to  the  horses  and  cows 
until  they  presented  plain  evidence  of  being 
"under  conviction." 

But  the  fact  that  he  had  never  actually  been 
30 


.   .   RIDE 
AND  BLOW 
THE  WHISTLE 
P.  30 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

a  drunkard  was  against  him,  and  finally  caused 
him  to  abandon  the  field.  The  advent  of  a 
circus  doubtless  helped  to  precipitate  this  step. 
Although  his  parents  were  scrupulously  op- 
posed to  "shows,"  this  one  was  so  lavishly 
magnificent  in  its  advertisements  that  they 
resolved  to  make  an  exception  in  its  favor, 
compromising  with  their  consciences  by  argu- 
ing that  it  was  really  the  instructive  menagerie 
which  they  wished  to  see.  So  they  went  early 
and  staid  through  concert  and  all.  They  would 
not  have  entered  the  circus  tent  at  all,  but  that 
the  elephants  were  going  to  perform  there,  and 
they  could  not  afford  to  miss  the  edifying  sight 
of  an  elephant  standing  on  his  head.  Mrs. 
Winkle  was  pained  by  many  things  she  saw 
at  the  performance,  especially  the  profound 
interest  in  every  act  manifested  by  Johnnie 
and  Mr.  Winkle. 

Johnnie  walked  and  lived  in  a  dream  of 
prancing  horses,  of  trapeze  and  tights,  for 
weeks.  He  fully  determined  to  be  a  show- 
man, and  practiced  faithfully  to  that  end.  He 
came  near  breaking  his  neck  in  an  attempt  to 
execute  a  double  somersault  in  the  hay-mow 
31 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

by  making  a  mathematical  mistake  and  care- 
lessly turning  over  just  once  and  a  half  in- 
stead of  twice.  He  constructed  a  trapeze  out 
of  halter  ropes  and  a  pitchfork  handle,  from 
which  he  dangled  in  daring  poses.  He  painted 
his  face  with  pokeberries  and  surreptitiously 
borrowed  his  mother's  hat  in  order  to  play 
clown,  and  practiced  standing  on  his  head  till 
he  wore  his  hair  off.  But  the  lack  of  proper 
trappings  was  a  constant  source  of  embarrass- 
ment. His  failure  to  accomplish  certain  feats 
he  believed  to  be  due  solely  to  this  dearth 
of  tights  and  trunks.  So  he  went  about  con- 
structing an  outfit.  From  the  dark  depths  of 
the  garret  he  unearthed  certain  gauzy  rem- 
nants of  cast-off  underwear,  out  of  which, 
with  scissors,  needle  and  thread  he  pieced  to- 
gether a  strange  and  wonderful  garment. 
When  finished,  it  presented  an  undue  fullness 
here  and  there,  and  occasional  holes,  which 
he  had  neglected  to  mend,  but  the  warm 
weather  rendered  them  of  no  consequence. 

It  seemed    an    auspicious  day    for  him  to 
appear.     His  mother  had  company.     Aunt 
Mary  and  Cousin  Elmira  had  come  to  spend 
32 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

the  day,  and  shortly  after  them  the  minister 
and  his  wife.  The  latter  couple  had  proba- 
bly never  seen  an  acrobatic  performance,  and 
Johnnie  thought  how  pleased  they  would  be, 
and  how  proud  his  mother  ought  to  be,  when 
he  should  present  himself.  It  chanced  that 
the  subject  of  circuses  was  under  discussion. 
The  minister  had  mildly  rebuked  Sister  Win- 
kle for  her  recent  wordliness,  and  she  was 
feebly  protesting. 

"Now,  Brother  Potter,  I  don't  believe  it 
hurt  a  thing  for  us  to  go  just  that  one  time. 
The  animals  was  real  instructive,  an'  while  I 
didn't  approve  of  the  performance,  I  don't 
think  it  harmed  us  a  mite.  Now,  there's 
Johnnie — "  and  even  as  she  spoke,  there 
Johnnie  really  was.  A  sleeveless  shirt  with 
extremely  low  neck,  a  green  veil  for  a  trunk 
and  a  nameless  nether  garment  of  gauze  and 
striped  hosiery  constituted  his  costume.  He 
smiled  and  bowed  gracefully  as  he  came  into 
view  upon  the  lawn.  Then  he  began  jauntily 
with  a  succession  of  handsprings.  Mrs. 
Winkle  was  stricken  dumb. 

"Very  instructive,"  murmured  the  minis- 
3  33 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

ter,  while  his  wife  looked  pained  and  Aunt 
Mary  tittered. 

Johnnie  stood  on  his  head,  waving  his  feet. 

"My!  Ain't  that  splendid?"  cried  Elmira, 
clapping  her  hands. 

Suddenly  the  air  was  rent  with  a  sound  of 
tearing.  Then  Mrs.  Winkle  found  her  tongue. 

"You,  Johnnie '."she  screamed.  "You, 
Johnnie ! ' '  and  Johnnie  retired  in  hasty  dis- 
order. But  punishment  was  visited  upon  him 
before  he  had  time  to  put  on  more  substan- 
tial clothes,  and  its  severity  was  such  that  he 
never  donned  tights  again. 

There  were  many  wrongs  which  Johnnie 
expected  to  revenge  when  he  should  become 
a  man.  A  certain  big  boy  who  was  always 
bullying  him  was  to  be  so  thoroughly  thrashed 
that  he  would  weep  and  beg  for  mercy. 
Cousin  Elmira  was  to  suffer  for  her  tattling, 
and  even  his  parents  were  to  be  made  to  real- 
ize the  injustice  of  their  acts.  Yet  a  due 
amount  of  reflection  upon  this  subject  tended 
to  soften  his  asperity,  and  he  always  decided 
it  were  better  to  be  generous  as  well  as  just. 

He  would  do  a  great  many  nice  things. 
34 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

Those  who  were  becomingly  meek  and  peni- 
tent he  would  magnanimously  discharge  with 
the  injunction  to  "go,  and  sin  no  more. ' '  And 
if  he  ever  had  any  little  boys  of  his  own,  how 
beautifully  he  would  treat  them.  This  was 
one  of  his  favorite  topics  for  speculation.  His 
little  boys  should  go  to  school  only  when 
they  pleased;  they  should  not  have  to  do 
chores ;  they  should  have  pie  for  breakfast 
(as  many  pieces  as  they  wished) ;  they  should 
have  hip  pockets  and  wear  suspenders,  and 
go  to  all  the  circuses,  and  have  ponies  and 
lots  of  dogs,  and  a  little  train  of  cars  to  run 
by  steam.  Other  little  boys  would  come  for 
miles  around  to  see  what  a  kind  papa  his  little 
boys  had. 

Thus  would  Johnnie  dream  and  ponder  un- 
til he  fairly  worshiped  the  ideal  man,  who 
he  intended  to  be.  Truly  the  child  is  father 
of  the  man ;  but  how  degenerate  a  descend- 
ant he  becomes  when  he  has  reached  matu- 
rity! 

Yet,  often  childhood's  dreams  are  the  seeds 
of  future  greatness.  Somewhere  in  the  course 
of  every  notable  career,  perhaps,  the  legend 
35 


AS  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

of  Dick  Whittington  is  paralleled.  If  the  soil 
of  heredity  and  the  climate  of  environment  are 
at  all  favorable,  the  idlest  dreams  may  prove 
to  be  the  little  acorns  from  which  grow  the 
tallest  oaks.  But,  alas,  the  soil  is  often  ster- 
ile, the  summer  dry,  and  worst  of  all,  the 
seeds  are  quite  as  frequently  the  germs  of 
tares  as  of  wheat .  The ' '  Raggedy  Man  "  may 
have  sown  whilst  worthier  people  slept — the 
Hired  Hand's  influence  may  have  implanted 
ideals  deeper  than  the  parson's;  and  weeds 
are  ever  prone  to  flourish  at  the  expense  of 
useful  cereals. 


THE   LAST  DAY   OF  SCHOOL 

GOING  to  school  was  compulsory.  That 
was  the  chief  reason  Johnnie  disliked  it.  If 
his  parents  had  held  it  out  to  him  as  a  luxu- 
ry, if  they  had  spoken  of  it  as  an  indulgence 
they  could  ill  afford  and  tried  to  persuade  him 
to  be  satisfied  with  picture-books  at  home, 
he  would  have  gone  or  died.  But  it  was  con- 
tinually presented  to  him  in  the  light  of  a 
serious  duty  and  duties  are  always  bugbears 
to  boyhood.  On  general  principles  Johnnie 
disliked  the  things  he  ought  to  do,  and  the 
things  he  had  to  do  he  hated.  Such  has 
been  the  primitive  perverseness  of  his  kind 
since  Adam's  fall. 

For  weeks  he  had  been  looking  longingly 

forward  to  vacation.     There  was  nothing  he 

desired  so  much  as  to  be  free  once  more.     It 

seemed  to  him  that  when  school  closed,  he 

37 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

would  be  the  happiest  boy  in  the  world.  He 
laid  a  hundred  plans  for  the  holidays,  includ- 
ing in  their  scope  every  sort  of  diversion,  from 
fishing  to  chasing  butterflies. 

But  when  the  last  day  of  school  really  came, 
he  did  not  rejoice  as  he  had  anticipated.  All 
day  long  strange  regrets  kept  rising  in  his 
throat  and  choking  him,  an  unaccustomed 
sadness  dimmed  his  eyes  and  dark-browed 
melancholy  came  and  sat  at  his  side.  The 
last  day  of  school !  The  last  day  of  base-ball 
and  blackman,  of  hide-and-seek  and  Ant'ny 
over,  of  "green  gravel,"  of  ring  a-rosy — the 
last  happy  day  of  whispering,  of  smiling  at 
girls  and  writing  notes,  of  play,  of  joy,  of 
love !  To-morrow  he  would  be  at  home  and 
companionless.  To-morrow  he  would  be  dis- 
consolate and  altogether  miserable.  The  last 
day.  He  wished — yes,  he  wished  it  were  but 
the  beginning  of  school  again,  with  all  the 
long,  delightful  months  to  follow ! 

He  borrowed  Alice's  geography  and  slow- 
ly, as  he  turned  the  leaves — for  the  last  time 
• — reviewed  the  events  of  the  hallowed  past. 
How  many  and  how  dear  were  the  recollec- 

38 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF 
RING  A- ROSS Y 

p.  38 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

tions  that  floated  there  between  him  and  the 
book !  Every  blessed  page  was  intimately 
connected  with  some  irretrievable  by-gone 
pleasure.  And  it  was  Alice's  book.  His  af- 
fection for  her,  which  had  languished  of  late, 
came  surging  back  resistlessly.  It  was  her 
book ;  her  name  was  on  the  fly-leaf,  written 
beautifully;  her  thumb-marks  underscored 
each  lesson,  the  faint,  meadowy  odor,  exhal- 
ing from  its  pages,  ah,  futile  incense  to  de- 
parted days,  whispered  of  her!  And  this 
was  the  end  of  all.  Doubtless  other  eyes 
would  gaze  upon  the  book,  other  hands  ca- 
ress it,  other  hearts  throb  with  the  love  of  her, 
ere  school  opened  again.  With  brimming 
eyes,  which  shamed  him,  Johnnie  inscribed 
on  the  last  page  that  soulful  sentiment,  sacred 
to  all  school-memories:  "When  this  you 
see,  remember  me,"  and  sealed  it  with  a  tear. 
Nay,  the  love  affairs  of  boyhood  are  not  to  be 
passed  over  in  derision.  Is  not  childhood 
a  part,  the  very  best  part,  of  life?  And 
its  passions,  though  often  transient,  are  they 
not  intense  and  pure?  He  is  hopelessly  old 


39 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

to  whom  the  sentiment  of  the  young  appears 
utterly  inane  and  silly. 

On  this  last  day  of  school  Johnnie's  heart 
softened  toward  the  teacher  also.  He  had 
regarded  her  always  as  a  sort  of  natural  ene- 
my, whom  it  was  his  prerogative  to  oppose, 
and  for  whom  anything  more  than  a  cold  re- 
spect was  weakness.  Yet  she  was  not  such  a 
bad  teacher,  after  all ;  and  he  almost  wept 
again  with  the  thought  of  not  seeing  her  any 
more.  All  the  boys  and  girls  seemed  to  as- 
sume more  amiable  outlines  in  the  perspect- 
ive of  the  past.  Even  the  familiar  furniture 
of  the  room  took  on  a  golden  glamor,  and  his 
hardest  lessons  smiled  up  into  his  face  in  the 
guise  of  old  friends. 

The  day  was  not  all  given  to  gloom,  how- 
ever. School  was  to  close  with  a  flourish  of 
great  "doings."  A  program  had  been  pre- 
pared, consisting  of  compositions,  declama- 
tions and  a  grand  finale  of  competitive  spell- 
ing. Johnnie,  himself,  was  to  "say  apiece," 
upon  which  his  mother  had  been  drilling  him 
for  weeks,  and  she  was  coming  after  dinner  to 
hear  him. 

40 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

Among  the  throng  of  visitors  came  Alice's 
mother,  too.  Johnnie  looked  upon  her  with 
awe.  To  be  the  parent  of  his  Dulcinea  was 
to  be  great.  Perhaps  it  was  largely  owing  to 
her  presence  that  Johnnie  muddled  his 
'  'speech. ' '  Another  enervating  circumstance 
may  have  been  the  fact  that  Alice  immedi- 
ately preceded  him  with  a  soul-stirring  essay 
on  "Love  Thy  Neighbor."  At  any  rate 
when  Johnnie's  name  was  announced  a  strange 
numbness  came  over  him,  his  knees  trembled 
and  his  identity  was  lost.  It  was  not  really 
Johnnie  who  staggered  to  the  rostrum  and, 
in  a  sepulchral  voice,  murmured  dolefully: 

"Twinkle  little — twinkle  star, 

How  I  wonder' ' — here  he  paused  and  tried 
to  swallow  the  lump  in  his  throat — 

"How  I  wonder  what  you  are, 

Up  above" — another  gulp — "above  the 
world  so  high, 

How  I  wonder  what  you  are, 

When  the  golden  grass  is  set,"  some  one 
tittered,  and,  panic  stricken,  Johnnie  rushed 
on  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep. 

1  'When — the — sky — with — dew — is — wet, 
41 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

— Then — you — show — your — little — light, 
Twinkle — all — the— night— ' '  gulp — '  'night. ' ' 

He  finished  in  a  husky  whisper  and  flew  to 
his  seat,  where  his  temporarily  departed  spirit 
presently  rejoined  him.  The  remainder  of 
the  exercises  he  enjoyed  very  well,  especially 
the  "new  girl's"  recital  of  "Curfew"  and  the 
Big  Boy's  interpretation  of  "Antony  on  the 
Death  of  Caesar." 

The  "spelling-match"  came  next,  and, 
here,  Johnnie  shone.  Spelling  was  his  forte. 
He  caught  the  words  in  mid  air  as  the  teacher 
"gave  them  out"  and  hurled  them  back  confi- 
dently, almost  defiantly.  Now  and  then  he 
made  a  feint  of  missing  one,  but  he  would  al- 
ways catch  it  on  the  "first  bounce"  if  not  on 
the  "fly"  and,  tossing  it  up  a  time  or  two, 
would  send  it  back  unerringly.  Some  of  the 
more  difficult  words  he  literally  seemed  to 
hold  in  his  mouth  and  masticate  a  while,  just 
to  get  the  juice  out  of  them,  but  they  always 
came  forth  "right."  When  the  teacher 
loaded  her  mortar  with  "daguerreotype"  and 
fired,  a  hush  fell  upon  the  room,  and  every 
one  thought  how  heartless  it  was  to  aim  such 
42 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

deadly  artillery  at  so  small  a  boy.  But,  ere 
the  smoke  had  cleared  away,  Johnnie  was 
seen  to  square  himself  and  swell  up  proudly 
for  the  answering  volley.  "D-a,  da,  g-u-e-r- 
r-e,  gar,  o,  garo,  t-y-p-e,  type,  daguerreo- 
type," spelled  Johnnie  in  measured  tones. 

"Right ! ' '  called  the  teacher,  and  the  house 
roared  with  applause. 

At  length  every  scholar  was  spelled  down, 
except  Johnnie  and  Alice,  and,  for  half  an 
hour,  the  victory  lay  between  them.  The 
dictionary  was  drawn  upon  and  strange,  un- 
natural words  never  before  heard  of,  were 
pronounced.  It  was  a  tedious  battle.  Finally 
in  despair,  the  teacher  called  incisively, 
"Caoutchouc!" 

It  was  Alice's  turn,  and  she  misspelled  the 
ghastly  word  miserably. 

"Next/'  sighed  the  teacher,  with  an  air 
of  relief. 

And  Johnnie  spelled  it  right. 

It  was  certainly  either  a  miracle  or  an  acci- 
dent, the  people  whispered.  But,  in  fact,  it 
was  neither.  Johnnie  had  come  upon  the 
word  in  the  back  of  the  geography  one  day, 
43 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

and  its  very  formidableness  had  fascinated 
him  into  mastering  it  then  and  there.  He  was 
lionized  by  all,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
proud  moment  for  him  but  for  the  lamentable 
fact  that  his  gain  had  been  Alice's  loss.  In 
the  excitement  of  the  contest  he  had  hardly 
realized  the  personality  of  his  opponent.  He 
had  been  oblivious  to  everything  except  the 
words  he  was  spelling.  All  unintentionally, 
he  felt  that  he  had  done  a  very  ungracious 
thing — had  defeated  and  put  to  shame  the 
girl  he  adored. 

"It's  jist  the  teacher's  partiality,"  he  heard 
Alice's  mother  whisper,  "I  don't  believe  he 
spelt  it  right  at  all.  I  doubt  if  they  is  such  a 
word,  anyways.  The  idea!" 

And  amid  all  the  buzz  of  congratulations 
Johnnie  was  profoundly  wretched. 

But,  at  all  odds,  he  had  won  the  prize,  and 
he  hoped  its  possession  might  compensate 
him  to  some  degree.  He  was  called  to  the 
platform,  where,  with  words  of  praise,  such  as 
she  had  never  bestowed  before,  the  teacher 
presented  him  a  book.  He  thrust  it  into  his 


44 


THE    LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

pocket  and  started  to  his  seat  amid  renewed 
applause.  But  his  mother  intercepted  him. 

"Johnnie  Winkle,"  she  whispered  shrilly, 
"where's  your  manners?  Go  back  and  thank 
your  teacher!" 

Johnnie  had  not  learned  that  inconsistent 
but  imperative  rule  of  custom,  which  requires 
an  additional  payment  of  thanks  for  honors 
already  well  earned. 

"I'm  much  obliged,"  he  admitted  diffi- 
dently, facing  about. 

There  was  much  curiosity  expressed  as  to 
the  book's  probable  contents  and  value,  but 
Johnnie  stubbornly  refused  to  permit  its  in- 
spection. 

The  actual  breaking  up  of  school  was  not 
so  painful  after  all.  Farewells  were  lightly 
spoken  for  the  most  part,  and  sighs  and  tears 
kept  in  abeyance  by  an  assumption  of  gayety. 
Regret  at  parting  with  a  friend  was  largely 
assuaged  by  getting  his  "tag." 

When  he  arrived  home,  Johnnie  examined 
his  prize  book.  It  was  a  very  small  and  some- 
what rusty  looking  volume,  across  whose 


45 


THE   LAST  DAY  OF  SCHOOL 

cover  was  emblazoned  the  melancholy  title, 
"Paradise  Lost!" 

"H'm — poertry,"  murmured  Johnnie  de- 
jectedly, as  he  turned  the  pages.  Before 
night  the  book  had  been  given  a  place  in  the 
family  book-case,  where  it  reposed  in  undis- 
turbed peace  for  many  years. 


46 


VI 

VACATION   AND    CHORES 

JOHNNIE  WINKLE'S  world  was  narrow.  It 
consisted  only  of  two  or  three  square  miles  oi 
farm  land,  bounded  by  an  irregular  horizon 
of  timber,  out  of  which  the  sun  rose  each 
morning  and  into  which  it  disappeared  each 
night.  Strange,  unearthly  shadows  filled  this 
sylvan  border-land,  and  beyond  lay  mystery, 
impenetrable.  But  the  sky  reached  to  a  stu- 
pendous height,  and  was  very  blue  above. 
Across  this  world,  even  as  the  milky- way  girt 
the  heavens,  ran  the  country  road,  a  wonder- 
ful, unknown  path,  leading  out  of  space  into 
space  and  joining  together  a  universe  of  plan- 
etary systems  of  a  vastness  and  importance 
but  dimly  guessed. 

It  was  a  small  world,  but  it  was  a  busy 
and  contented  one,  full  of  life  and  sunshine, 
and  so  abundant  in  production  that  its  har- 
47 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

vests  continually  overflowed  into  other  less 
luxurious  ones.  To  a  sojourner  from  the 
sulphurous  Mars-like  city  it  might  have  pre- 
sented a  somewhat  drowsy,  humdrum  appear- 
ance at  times — its  peace  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  solitude,  its  quietude  for  dull- 
ness; but  to  its  native  inhabitants,  who  knew 
its  under-life  and  the  subtle,  silent  magic  of 
the  seasons,  it  was  the  best  and  most  beaute- 
ous of  worlds.  For  them  it  did  not  lack  en- 
tertainment. The  grand  opera  opened  with 
frog  choruses  and  closed  with  a  rare  solo  by 
Madam  Whip-poor-will.  Nature  set  fire-flies 
aglow  and  hung  out  jack-o'-lanterns  each 
fourth  of  July,  and  the  moon  and  stars  occu- 
pied the  firmament  night  after  night.  Flow- 
ers sprung  up  and  bloomed  of  their  own 
accord,  and  birds  came  and  sang  melodies  of 
freedom.  Bonbons  clustered  on  every  bush 
and  bramble  to  be  had  for  the  picking.  In 
May  mulberries  grew  luscious,  strawberries  in 
June,  blackberries  in  July,  and  all  sorts  of 
nuts,  not  to  mention  pumpkins,  persimmons 
and  pawpaws,  ripened  during  the  fall.  There 
was  plenty  of  fish  in  the  brooks,  game  in  the 


.   .  THIS 
SYLVAN 
BORDER-LAND 
p.  4-7 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

woods — health,  wealth  and  happiness  every- 
where. 

Such  was  Johnnie's  world — such  was  the 
garden  of  Eden !  But  the  tree  of  knowledge 
was  there,  and  the  serpent,  and  when  one  had 
tasted  the  fruit  he  was  sure  to  realize  his  own 
nakedness  and  recognize  good  and  evil,  even 
in  Paradise.  Moreover  his  bread  was  not  to 
be  acquired  except  by  profuse  perspiration, 
and  Johnnie  early  learned  this  lesson. 

Chief  among  his  duties  was  "doing  chores, ' ' 
a  term  including  all  manner  of  unclassified 
labor  on  the  farm — hewing  wood,  drawing 
water,  feeding  cattle,  milking,  riding,  driv- 
ing, walking,  running.  The  catalogue  was 
simply  endless.  Chores  awoke  him  early 
each  morning,  and  always  bade  him  a  tardy, 
tired  "good-night."  They  were  never  done. 
They  assumed  Protean  shapes  and  Titanic 
dimensions.  He  turned  the  horses  into  the 
pasture  at  night  to  trudge  after  them  again  in 
the  morning ;  he  weeded  the  onion  bed  to- 
day, hoed  potatoes  to-morrow,  and  weeded 
the  onion  bed  on  the  day  after.  Whatsoever 
he  sowed  that  also  he  had  to  reap,  and  sow 
4  49 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

and  reap  again.  Nay,  the  biblical  axiom  did 
not  express  it  by  half,  for  not  only  must  he 
reap  and  sow,  but  prepare  the  soil  and  till  it. 

One  of  the  most  formidable  subdivisions  of 
the  chores  was. known  as  " running  errands." 
It  was  always  run;  never  walk  or  ride.  Run 
over  to  Mr.  Smith's  and  borrow  his  post- 
auger;  run  down  to  Aunt  Mary's  and  get  a 
pint  of  flour;  run  to  the  house  and  fetch  a 
jug  of  water;  run  to  the  field  and  call  the 
men  to  dinner ;  run  the  calf  out  of  the  yard ; 
run  the  pigs  out  of  the  corn-field ;  run  away ; 
run  home;  run,  run  everywhere!  That  was 
Johnnie's  strongest  reason  for  wanting  wings, 
so  that  he  could  rest  his  limbs  now  and  then 
by  flying. 

Some  people  seemed  to  think  boys  never 
grew  tired, — as  if  they  were  not  always  tired, 
except  when  playing. 

Running  errands  would  doubtless  exhaust 
all  boys  and  dwarf  their  natures  beyond  re- 
pair were  it  not  for  their  genius  of  evading 
and  prevaricating.  Imagine  Johnnie  running 
all  the  way  to  Aunt  Mary's  and  back  again 
without  once  stopping.  He  knew  it  was  im- 
50 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

practicable,  preposterous ;  for  how  could  he 
run  over  fences  and  through  the  creek?  No 
boy  could  run  in  water  up  to  his  neck,  and 
the  only  other  way  to  cross  was  on  a  danger- 
ous, slippery  log.  Being  convinced  that  the 
command  could  not  be  obeyed  literally,  he 
did  not  undertake  it.  He  would  start  in  a 
run,  but  when  he  came  to  the  creek  he  usu- 
ally stripped  and  swam  it,  dog-fashion,  back 
and  forth  several  times,  and  then  walked  cau- 
tiously over  the  log,  and  when  he  reached 
home  he  explained  that  his  hair  was  wet  with 
sweat  from  having  run  so  fast. 

But  running  the  pigs  out  of  the  corn  pre- 
sented no  pretext  for  diversion.  There  was 
no  creek  in  the  corn-field,  and  if  there  had 
been  the  pigs  would  never  have  gone  near  it. 
Pigs  are  peculiar  creatures.  Johnnie  believed 
they  were  all  possessed  of  devils,  and  that  it 
was  pure  perverseness  which  caused  them  to 
circle  round  and  round  the  field,  apparently 
unable  to  find  the  crack  in  the  fence  through 
which  they  had  entered.  He  would  come 
upon  them  rooting  in  the  middle  of  the  field. 
"Woof!  woof!"  they  would  snort  and  scatter 
51 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

in  more  directions  than  there  were  pigs.  Then 
he  would  follow  some  particular  one  in  a  zig- 
zag race  to  the  fence.  Just  ahead  appeared 
the  space  between  two  rails,  marked  by  mud 
and  bristles,  where  the  marauder  had  got  in. 
Straight  to  the  crack  the  pig  would  run  until 
fairly  there,  when,  with  a  scared  look,  it 
would  utter  another  "woof!"  and  go  scurry- 
ing off  at  a  right  angle.  In  the  meantime  its 
companions  in  crime  were  peacefully  feed- 
ing again  and,  seeking  them  out,  Johnnie 
would  choose  another  for  a  second  heat,  with 
the  same  exasperating  result  as  before.  Fi- 
nally, when  he  had  become  absolutely  worn 
out  and  flung  himself  in  a  shaded  fence-corner 
to  breathe,  the  whole  herd  of  swine  would  file 
demurely  past  him,  and  with  whine  and 
grunt,  march  deliberately  out  of  their  own 
free  will. 

There  are  some  kinds  of  work  which  can 
be  slighted,  and  if  Johnnie  could  have  had 
his  preference,  he  would  always  have  chosen 
these.  For  instance,  when  sent  alone  to 
plant  a  pint  of  beans,  by  sticking  holes  near 
hills  of  corn — one  for  each  bean — he  could 
52 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

economize  time  at  the  expense  of  beans, 
by  planting  a  dozen  at  each  place,  and  throw- 
ing the  last  double  handful  into  a  bottomless 
crawfish  hole. 

But  perhaps  the  most  satisfactory,  variety 
of  labor  was  that  which,  by  a  stretch  of  the 
imagination,  he  could  persuade  himself  was 
not  work  at  all,  but  play,  or  at  least  some 
novel  and  wonderfully  lucrative  employment. 
Johnnie  was  not  an  utterly  lazy  boy.  It  was 
not  action  he  disliked,  but  tedium  and  re- 
straint. Chiefly  he  wanted  to  be  a  man,  to 
do  a  man's  work,  to  accomplish  great  things. 
Digging  potatoes  was,  in  itself,  dismal 
drudgery,  but  by  making-believe  each  potato 
was  a  nugget  of  gold  and  himself  a  delving 
miner,  it  became  a  really  splendid  vocation. 
Nor  was  cutting  thistles  in  the  pasture  a  play- 
ful thing,  yet,  when  he  called  each  plant  an 
armed  enemy  and  himself  a  bold  knight  errant, 
it  became  a  pleasant  pastime.  So  with  many 
forms  of  chore-work,  but  he  could  never  con- 
jure up  any  satisfactory  glamor  for  the  tasks 
of  weeding  onions  and  chopping  stove- 
wood. 

53 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

All  in  all,  Johnnie's  vacation  was  far  from 
empty,  and  he  found  little  time  and  less  in- 
clination for  school  ward  yearnings.  In  the 
intervals  between  chores,  he  devised  many 
ways  of  amusing  himself,  and  the  dearth  of 
boy-companions  was  largely  supplied  by  his 
dog,  Pluto.  A  dog  is  almost  as  good  a  play- 
mate and  a  better  friend  than  a  boy.  He 
never  tires  of  being  "It"  in  a  game  of  tag, 
and  will  endure  every  form  of  imposition  with- 
out complaining. 

Pluto  was  a  democratic  dog,  having  no 
more  of  a  pedigree  than  his  master.  True, 
he  possessed  traits  which  led  Johnnie  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  "full-blooded;"  but  his  an- 
cestry was  unknown.  His  vellow  coat  and 
squatty  legs  lent  color  and  form  to  the  convic- 
tion that  he  was  just  an  ordinary  "fice." 
Johnnie  and  Pluto  were  inseparable.  Much 
of  Johnnie's  spare  time  was  spent  in  teach- 
ing the  dog  tricks.  These  tricks  were  won- 
derful to  relate,  but  rather  disappointing  to 
see,  needing  a  boy's  sympathetic  imagination 
to  point  out  their  intelligence.  At  driving 
cattle  Pluto  was  a  success,  except  that  he  al- 
54 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

ways  approached  them  from  in  front  and 
drove  them  the  wrong  way.  He  was  an  ad- 
mira,ble  hunting  dog,  so  far  as  hunting  was 
concerned,  but  he  seldom  actually  found  any 
game. 

Johnnie  had  two  other  occasional  comrades, 
the  ''Hired  Hand"  and  Cousin  Henry.  The 
latter  was  three  years  his  senior,  and  the  re- 
lationship between  him  and  Johnnie  was  some- 
what similar  to  that  existing  between  Johnnie 
and  Pluto.  Great  concessions  were  necessary 
on  Johnnie's  part,  before  Cousin  Henry  would 
deign  to  play  with  him ;  and  then  the  sport 
had  to  be  conducted  with  manly  dignity. 
Cousin  Henry  chewed  tobacco — in  secret — 
and  could  "cuss."  Moreover,  it  was  whis- 
pered, and  never  denied  by  him,  that  he  had 
"gone  with  girls,''  escorting  them  home 
from  meeting  and  parties.  These  accom- 
plishments commanded  respect  and  respect 
for  him  compelled  obedience  to  his  wishes. 

Cousin  Henry  condescended  to  pay  John- 
nie a  visit  about  once  a  fortnight.  For  an 
hour  they  would  get  on  well  enough  playing 


55 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

"Indian"  or  "  Cow-boy."  Then  Henry 
would  grow  disgusted. 

"Aw,  say,  this  is  no  fun.  Where's  yer 
pa's  musket?" 

"In  the  house,"  Johnnie  would  answer 
hesitatingly. 

"Go  git  it." 

"Paw  don't  'low  me  to." 

"Who  ast  him !      Go  git  it,  I  tell  ye." 

Then  Johnnie  would  sneak  into  the  house 
and,  after  a  short  absence,  would  return  with 
the  intelligence  that  he  couldn't  find  the  gun 
"noplace" — which  was  grammatically  true, 
but  to  all  intents  a  lie. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what,"  Henry  would  exclaim 
a  few  minutes  later,  "let's  go  over  to  ol'  man 
Shank's  melon-patch." 

'  'All  right ! ' '  Johnnie  would  answer  with 
ill-assumed  alacrity. 

Across  the  fields  they  would  hasten  with 
bated  breath  until  the  fence  in  the  rear  of  the 
Shank's  premises  was  reached.  There  Henry 
would  kneel  and  point  out  the  melon-patch  to 
Johnnie,  whispering: 

"Now,  you'r  smaller'n  me.  You'll  find 
56 


PLAYING 
INDIAN 
p.  56 


VACATION  AND  CHORES 

the  best  ones  up  next  to  the  garden.  Be 
quick  an'  keep  yer  eyes  peeled  for  the  dog!" 
And  quaking  with  terror,  Johnnie  would  obey. 
In  almost  every  instance  the  dog  saw  John- 
nie and  charged  on  him  before  he  got  half 
way  across  the  lot.  On  one  occasion  he  was 
forced  to  climb  a  peach-tree  to  save  himself. 
Cousin  Henry  forsook  him  ignominiously  and 
he  might  have  perished  there,  if  Shank's 
hired  girl  had  not  come  to  his  release.  Yet 
such  experiences  never  shook  his  faith  in 
Cousin  Henry.  His  constancy  was  very  like 
Pluto's. 

There  are  men,  as  well  as  dogs  and  boys, 
who  will  take  kicks  from  one  and  resent  a 
look  from  another. 


VII 

THE   HIRED    HAND   AND    "HA'NTS" 

THE  Hired  Hand  was  Johnnie's  oracle.  His 
auguries  were  infallible;  from  his  decisions 
there  was  no  appeal.  The  wisdom  of  experi- 
enced age  was  his,  and  he  always  stood  will- 
ing to  impart  it  to  the  youngest.  No  ques- 
tion was  too  trivial  for  him  to  consider,  and 
none  too  abstruse  for  him  to  answer.  He  did 
not  tell  Johnnie  to  "never  mind,"  or  wait  un- 
til he  grew  older,  but  was  ever  willing  to 
pause  in  his  work  to  explain  things.  And  his 
oracular  qualifications  were  genuine.  He  had 
traveled — had  even  been  as  far  as  Indianapo- 
lis once  to  the  State  Fair ;  he  had  read — from 
Robinson  Crusoe  to  Dick,  the  Dead  Shot, 
and,  more  than  all,  he  had  meditated  deeply. 

The  Hired  Hand's  name  was  Eph.  Perhaps 
he  had  a  Christian  name,  too,  but  if  so  it  had 
58 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "  H A'NTS  " 

grown  obsolete.  Far  and  wide  he  was  known 
simply  as  Eph. 

Eph  was  generally  termed  "a  cur'ous  fel- 
ler," and  this  characterization  applied  equally 
well  to  his  peculiar  appearance  and  inquiring 
disposition.  In  his  conformation  Nature  had 
evidently  sacrificed  her  love  of  beauty  to 
a  passing  passion  for  elongation.  Length 
seemed  to  have  been  the  central  thought — 
the  theme,  as  it  were,  upon  which  he  had 
been  composed.  This  effect  was  heightened 
by  generously  broad  hands  and  feet  and  a 
contrastingly  abbreviated  chin.  The  latter 
feature  caused  his  countenance  to  wear  in  re- 
pose a  decidedly  vacant  look,  but  it  was  sel- 
dom caught  reposing,  usually  having  to  bear 
a  smirk  of  some  sort. 

Eph's  position  in  the  Winkle  household 
was  as  peculiar  as  his  personality.  Nomi- 
nally he  was  a  hired  servant,  but,  in  fact, 
from  his  own  point  of  view  at  least,  he  was 
Mr.  Winkle's  private  secretary  and  confiden- 
tial adviser.  He  had  been  on  the  place 
"ever  sence  ol'  Fan  was  a  yearlin',"  which 
was  a  long  while,  indeed,  and  had  come  to 
59 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "HA'NTS" 

regard  himself  as  indispensable.  The  Win- 
kles treated  him  as  one  of  the  family,  and  he 
reciprocated  in  truly  familiar  ways.  He  sat 
at  the  table  with  them,  helped  entertain  their 
guests  and  often  accompanied  them  to  church. 
In  regulating  matters  on  the  farm  Mr.  Winkle 
proposed,  but  Eph  invariably  disposed,  in  a 
diplomatic  way,  of  course,  and  although  his 
judgment  might  be  based  on  false  logic,  the 
result  was  generally  successful  and  satisfac- 
tory. 

With  all  his  good  qualities  and  her  attach- 
ment to  him,  however,  Mrs.  Winkle  was  not 
sure  that  Eph's  moral  status  was  quite  sound, 
and  she  was  inclined  to  discourage  Johnnie's 
association  with  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she 
had  overheard  Johnnie  utter  several  "bad 
words,"  of  which  Eph  was  certainly  the  prime 
source.  But  a  mother's  solicitude  was  of 
little  avail  when  compared  with  Eph's  Del- 
phian wisdom.  Johnnie  would  steal  away  to 
join  Eph  in  the  field  at  every  chance,  and  the 
information  he  acquired  at  these  secret  seances 
was  varied  and  valuable. 

It  was  Eph  who  taught  him  how  to  tell  the 
60 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "HA'NTS" 

time  of  day  by  the  sun;  how  to  insert  a 
"dutchman"  in  the  place  of  a  lost  suspender 
button;  how  to  make  bird-traps,  and  how  to 
'  'skin  a  cat. ' '  Eph  initiated  him  into  the  mys- 
teries of  magic  and  witchcraft,  and  showed 
him  how  to  locate  a  subterranean  vein  of  wa- 
ter by  means  of  a  twig  of  witch-hazel.  Eph 
also  confided  to  Johnnie  that  he  could  stanch 
the  flow  of  blood  or  stop  a  toothache  instantly 
by  force  of  a  certain  charm,  but  he  could  not 
tell  how  to  do  this  because  the  secret  could 
be  imparted  only  from  man  to  woman,  or 
vice  versa.  Even  the  shadowy  domain  of 
spirits  had  not  been  exempt  from  Eph's 
investigations,  and  he  related  many  a  terrify- 
ing experience  with  "ha'nts." 

Johnnie  was  first  introduced  to  the  ghost 
world  one  summer  night,  when  he  and  Eph 
had  gone  fishing  together. 

"It  ye  want  to  ketch  the  big  uns,  always  go 
at  night  in  the  dark  o'  the  moon,"  said  Eph, 
and  his  piscatorial  knowledge  was  absolute. 

They  had  fished  in  silence  for  some  time, 
and  Johnnie  was  nodding,  when  Eph  sudden- 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "HA'NTS" 

ly  whispered,  "Le's  go  home,  sonny,  I  think 
I  see  a  ha'nt  down  yander." 

Johnnie  had  no  idea  what  a  "ha'nt"  might 
be,  but  Eph's  constrained  manner  betokened 
something  dreadful. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  come  within  sight 
of  home  that  Johnnie  ventured  to  inquire, 
"Say,  Eph,  what  is  a  ha'nt?" 

"Huh!  What  is  ha'nts?  Why,  sonny, 
you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  what 
ha'nts  is?" 

"Not  exactly;  sompin'  like  wild-cats,  ain't 
they?" 

"Well,  I'll  be  confounded!  Wild-cats! 
Not  by  a  long  shot, ' '  and  Eph  broke  into  the 
soft  chuckle  which  always  preceded  his  ex- 
planations. They  reached  the  orchard  fence 
and,  seating  himself  squarely  upon  the  top- 
most rail,  Eph  began  impressively : 

"Ha'nts  is  the  remains  of  dead  folks — 
more  'specially  them  that's  been  assinated, 
er,  that  is,  kilt — understan'?  They're  kind 
o'  like  sperrits,  ye  know.  After  so  long  a 
time  they  take  to  comin'  back  to  yarth  an' 
ha'ntin'  the  pre-cise  spot  where  they  wuz 
62 


.  .  A 

LOST 

SUSPENDER 
BUTTON 
P.  61 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "HA'NTS" 

murdered.  They  always  come  after  dark  an' 
the  diff 'runt  shapes  they  take  on  is  supprisin' . 
I  have  seed  ha'nts  that  looked  like  sheep,  an' 
ha'ntsthat  looked  like  human  persons  ;  but  lots 
of  'em  ye  cain't  see  a  tall,  bein'  in-visible,  as 
the  say  in'  is.  Now,  fer  all  we  know  they 
may  be  a  ha'nt  settin'  right  here  betwixt  us, 
this  minute!" 

With  this  solemn  declaration  Johnnie  shiv- 
ered and  began  edging  closer  to  Eph,  until 
restrained  and  appalled  by  the  thought  that 
he  might  actually  sit  upon  the  unseen  spirit 
by  such  movement. 

"But  do  they  hurt  people,  Eph?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

Eph  gave  vent  to  another  chuckle. 

"Not  if  ye  understan'  the'r  ways,"  he  ob- 
served sagely.  "If  ye  let  'em  alone  an' 
don't  go  foolin'  aroun'  the'r  ha'ntin'-groun' 
they'll  never  harm  ye.  But  don't  ye  never 
trifle  with  no  ha'nt,  sonny.  I  knowed  a  fel- 
ler 't  thought  'twuz  smart  to  hector  'em  an' 
said  he  wuzn't  af eared.  Onct  he  throwed  a 
rock  at  one — " 

Here  Eph  paused. 

63 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "HA'NTS" 

"What  h-happened?"  gasped  Johnnie. 

"In  one  year  from  that  time,"  replied  Eph 
gruesomely,  "that  there  feller's  cow  wuz  hit 
by  lightnin' ;  in  three  year  his  hoss  kicked 
him  an'  busted  a  rib ;  an'  in  seven  year  he 
wuz  a  corpse  ! ' ' 

The  power  of  this  horrible  example  was  too 
much  for  Johnnie. 

"Don't  you  reckon  it's  bedtime?"  he  sug- 
gested tremblingly. 

Thenceforth  for  many  months  Johnnie  led 
a  haunted  life.  Ghosts  glowered  at  him  from 
cellar  and  garret.  Spectres  slunk  at  his  heels, 
phantoms  flitted  through  the  barn.  Twi- 
light teemed  with  horrors  and  midnight,  when 
he  awoke  at  that  hour,  made  of  his  bed-room 
a  veritable  Brocken. 

It  was  vain  for  his  parents  to  expostulate 
with  him.  Was  one  not  bound  to  believe 
one's  own  eyes?  And  how  about  the  testi- 
mony of  the  Hired  Hand? 

The  story  in  his  reader — told  in  verse  and 
graphically  illustrated — of  the  boy  of  the 
name  of  Walter,  who,  being  alone  on  a  lone- 
some highway  one  dark  night,  beheld  a  sight 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "  HA'NTS  " 

that  made  "his  blood  run  cold,"  acquired  an 
abnormal  interest  for  Johnnie.  Walter,  with 
courage  resembling  madness,  marched  straight 
up  to  the  alleged  ghost  and  laughed  gleefully 
to  find  "It  was  a  friendly  guide-post,  his 
wand 'ring  steps  to  guide." 

This  was  all  very  well,  as  it  turned  out,  but 
what  if  it  had  been  a  sure-enough  ghost,  reflected 
Johnnie.  What  if  it  had  reached  down  with 
its  long,  snaky  arms  and  snatched  Walter  up 
— and  run  off  with  him  in  the  dark — and  no 
telling  what?  Or  it  might  have  swooped 
straight  up  in  the  air  with  him,  for  ghosts 
could  do  that.  Johnnie  resolved  he  would 
not  take  any  chances  with  friendly  guide-posts 
which  might  turn  out  to  be  hostile  spirits. 

Then  there  was  the  similar  tale  of  the  lame 
goose  and  the  one  concerning  the  pillow  in 
the  swing — each  intended,  no  doubt,  to  allay 
foolish  fears  on  the  part  of  children,  but  exer- 
cising an  opposite  and  harrowing  influence 
upon  Johnnie. 

It  happened  about  this  time,  too,  that 
Cousin  Henry  loaned  Johnnie  a  contraband 
volume  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  There  the 
5  65 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "  HA'NTS  " 

miracles  of  mighty  magic  were  described  in 
plain  black  and  white,  calculated  to  dispel  all 
doubts.  Lying  prone  in  the  hay-mow,  or  re- 
clining against  the  straw-stack,  Johnnie 
gloated  over  the  book  by  the  hour.  No  other 
work  extant  furnishes  such  food  for  boyhood's 
imagination,  excepting,  possibly,  Pilgrim's 
Progress.  There  were  passages  in  the  narra- 
tives which  became  so  terribly  vivid  that 
Johnnie  would  be  compelled  to  put  the 
book  down  and  run  to  the  house.  In 
dreams  of  enchantment  he  wandered  through 
the  adjacent  woods  looking  for  the  entrance 
to  Aladdin's  cave.  He  fancied  the  dingy 
brass  ring  on  his  finger  might  be  a  magic  tal- 
isman, and  rubbed  it  vigorously,  half  expect- 
ing and  half  fearing  its  genii  would  appear. 
From  its  garret-grave  he  resurrected  the 
hobby-horse  of  other  days,  and  searched  it 
over  for  a  secret  peg,  such  as  the  Hindu  ma- 
gician's horse  possessed,  and  the  turning  of 
which  gave  the  beast  the  power  of  flying. 

But  Mrs.  Winkle  found  and  confiscated  the 
cherished  book  one  day,  and  its  whilom  en- 


66 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "HA'NTS" 

chantment  was  smothered  by  misgivings  as  to 
accounting  for  its  loss  to  its  jealous  owner. 

The  day  of  judgment  was  not  long  in  com- 
ing. Mrs.  Winkle  sat  up  half  the  night  in- 
specting the  volume,  and  wrestled  with  night- 
mares until  morning.  Then  she  took  it  under 
her  arm  and  hurried  down  to  Aunt  Mary's. 

"Did  you  know  your  boy  was  lending 
Johnnie  such  books  as  this?"  she  asked 
sharply. 

Aunt  Mary  did  not  know  it.  Indeed  she 
had  never  seen  the  book  before. 

"Well,  its  dreadful  nonsense,"  said  Mrs. 
Winkle.  "Full  of  witches  and  charms,  and 
such  stuff.  Some  of  it  is  downright  wicked; 
you  ought  to  read  it!" 

Aunt  Mary  took  the  book  somewhat  gin- 
gerly. She  was  sure  she  didn't  know  where 
Henry  could  have  got  it,  but  she  would  look 
into  it. 

So  the  book  was  perused  carefully  by  Aunt 
Mary,  who  confessed  herself  duly  horrified  by 
its  contents,  and,  by  way  of  pointing  the 
moral  of  its  immorality,  Henry  was  severely 


THE  HIRED  HAND  AND  "  HA'NTS  " 

punished  for  having  "brought  the  sinful  thing 
on  the  place." 

Henry  got  even  by  thrashing  Johnnie,  but 
Johnnie,  as  usual,  had  to  bottle  his  resent- 
ment, eking  out  only  a  small  portion  of  it  by 
going  around  behind  the  barn  and  throwing 
pebbles  at  the  chickens.  There  were  times 
when  Johnnie  wished  longingly  for  a  younger 
brother. 


68 


VIII 

BEING   SICK 

To  THE  average  man  being  sick  is  a  very 
melancholy  sort  of  diversion.  He  seldom  has 
the  leisure  time  to  devote  to  it,  and  he  is  al- 
ways oppressed  with  the  unpleasant  probabil- 
ities of  speedy  dissolution  and  the  dire  certain- 
ty of  doctors'  bills  to  pay.  But  to  the  aver- 
age boy  these  terrors  occur  not,  and  to  him 
being  sick  stands  next  in  enjoyment  to  a  fish- 
ing excursion.  A  sick  man  always  has  lungs, 
a  heart  and  a  liver — to  say  nothing  of  a  self- 
assertive  stomach — and  these  organs  are  con- 
stantly becoming  fatally  deranged  so  as  to 
require  his  strict  attention.  But  the  sick  boy 
has  none  of  these  organs,  except  the  stomach. 
Even  the  sober  contemplation  of  death  does 
not  greatly  perturb  the  philosopher  of  twelve, 
for  he  always  looks  upon  his  own  demise 
from  the  pathetic  but  impersonal  standpoint 
of  the  grief-stricken  friends  or  remorseful  ene- 
mies of  the  deceased. 

69 


BEING  SICK 

The  season  of  cucumbers  and  unripe  fruit 
always  marked  a  period  of  poor  health  in 
Johnnie's  career.  The  rose-tint  of  hardy 
youth  suddenly  faded  from  his  cheeks,  and  he 
grew  pallid  and  "bilious"  and  full  of  pain. 
At  such  times  he  was  inclined  to  become  pre- 
ternaturally  kind  and  patient,  enduring  every- 
thing with  martyr-like  resignation;  and 
death,  having  a  proverbial  fondness  for  shin- 
ing marks,  was  fully  expected  by  himself 
and  feared  by  his  distressed  mother. 

As  he  lay  quietly  in  bed  reflecting  upon 
such  grave  matters,  his  imagination  was  wont 
to  grow  active  and  tender,  and  hot  tears  often- 
times scalded  his  cheeks  as  he  thought  of  the 
terrible  void  his  untimely  taking  off  would 
make  in  the  world.  His  disconsolate  parents, 
his  heart-broken  playmates,  the  sad  and  re- 
morseful Cousin  Henry — who  thrashed  him 
only  last  week — ah,  if  he  had  only  known  ! — 
all  these  rose  up  and  gathered  around  his  bed 
to  mourn  until  his  own  soft  heart  was  touched 
and  he  mingled  his  tears  with  theirs.  In  pity 
for  their  distress  he  freely  forgave  them  for 
every  injury  they  had  heaped  upon  him  and, 
70 


BEING  SICK 

in  short,  conjured  up  for  himself  a  death-bed 
scene  as  beautiful  and  heart-rending  as  any 
Eva  or  Little  Nell  ever  figured  in. 

"Mother,"  he  moaned  feebly — he  always 
said  "maw"  when  well — "mother,  won't  you 
please  send  for  Cousin  Henry?" 

An  hour  later  when  that  worthy  appeared 
he  whispered : 

"Henry,  I  am  going  to  give  you  my  red- 
and-blue  lead  pencil." 

"Bully  for  you  ! ' '  cried  Henry,  snatching 
up  the  prize.  "Say,  I'm  going  to  take  this 
apple,  too.  The  doctor  says  you  can't  eat 
it,"  and  Henry  rushed  out  whistling  merrily. 

This  act  of  heartlessness  somewhat  marred 
the  pleasantness  of  dying;  in  fact  it  caused 
Johnnie  to  postpone  death  for  the  time  and  to 
demand  the  return  of  the  pencil ;  but  there 
was  many  another  solace  remaining. 

What  country  boy  has  not  enjoyed  the  un- 
told comforts  of  the  ague?  Certainly  there 
is  none  who  has  been  immune  in  the  valley 
of  the  Wabash.  The  weary,  aching  bones, 
which  rendered  rest  so  delicious,  the  fit  of 
shaking  and  the  burning  fever,  so  sure  to  bring 


BEING  SICK 

sympathy  and  all  sorts  of  dainty  food — sweet 
and  tender  is  the  reminiscence  and  the  only 
bitter  memory  it  awakens  is  that  of  quinine. 
Sometimes  malaria  attacks  a  boy  during  a 
season  of  holiday — but  not  often.  Usually 
its  onset  is  identical  with  the  beginning  of 
harvest.  Johnnie  was  stricken  while  helping 
shock  wheat,  and  the  Hired  Hand  had  to  lead 
him  to  the  house.  There  his  mother  tucked 
him  into  the  ever-cool  bed  in  the  spare-room 
and  set  Cousin  Elmira  to  minding  the  flies 
off  of  him.  Then  what  luxury  of  earthly 
bliss  could  equal  his !  He  closed  his  eyes 
softly,  dreamily  in  a  tranquillity  of  satisfaction. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  far-off 
hum  of  the  reaper,  but  its  drowsy  tones, 
which  had  seemed  to  mock  him  as  he  toiled 
a  little  while  ago,  were  soothing  as  a  lullaby 
now,  and,  mingled  with  the  song  of  the  wind 
in  the  maples,  the  lazy  buzzing  of  flies  and 
the  clink  of  dishes  in  the  kitchen.  He  kept 
his  bed  resolutely  until  toward  evening.  Then 
he  crept  out  to  look  upon  the  world  again. 
It  was  all  very  beautiful  and  peaceful,  with 
just  a  tinge  of  twilight  sadness.  Poor  little 
72 


BEING  SICK 

invalid !  How  he  longed  to  run  and  play 
again  as  he  used  to  do — but  the  chores  were 
not  done  yet. 

But  perhaps  the  most  satisfactory  state  of 
illness  to  Johnnie  was  that  which,  while  ren- 
dering him  totally  unable  to  work,  did  not 
incapacitate  him  from  the  milder  forms  of 
amusement,  or  make  such  indulgement  incon- 
sistent. For  this  purpose  nothing  served  bet- 
ter than  a  badly  bruised  toe,  or  a  boil  on  the 
knee.  Even  a  fractured  limb  he  would  have 
welcomed  as  not  impracticable.  Under  such 
affliction  he  was  justified  in  returning  to  his 
old  Noah's  ark  and  paper  soldiers — toys 
which  Cousin  Henry's  scorn  had  caused  him 
to  forsake  long  ago.  A  cripple  had  a  right 
to  be  babyish.  He  was  also  permitted  to 
whittle  in  the  house,  and  make  all  manner  of 
musses  with  impunity.  Moreover,  there  were 
certain  rare  books,  sealed  to  him  in  health,  to 
which  his  indisposition  gave  him  free  access. 
The  wonderful  photograph  album,  with  the 
pictures  of  grandpa  and  grandma  and  brave 
Uncle  Andrew,  who  was  a  sutler  in  the  army, 
and  pa  and  ma  when  they  were  first  married 
73 


BEING  SICK 

and  had  diamonds  and  dimples — the  former 
at  least,  supplied  by  the  accommodating  artist 
— what  a  feast  of  beauty  and  marvels  it  was ! 
The  ponderous  family  bible  was  fully  as  great 
an  attraction.  It  was  worth  a  good  deal  of 
physical  suffering  to  be  permitted  to  pore  over 
its  ancient  pages  and  gaze  upon  the  graphic 
representations  of  Goliath  in  the  act  of  being 
slain,  of  Samson  pulling  down  the  temple,  of 
John  the  Baptist's  gory  head  upon  a  platter 
and  the  myriads  of  big  angels  with  little 
wings  on  their  backs.  And  he  loved,  too,  to 
study  the  pictures  of  the  twelve  apostles — or 
the  twelve  epistles — he  could  never  quite  re- 
member which  it  was. 

When  these  books  grew  exhausted  there 
were  the  three  thick  volumes  of  Agricultural 
Reports,  which  a  generous  member  of  con- 
gress had  presented  to  his  father.  They  were 
replete  with  familiar  illustrations  and  strange 
words  that  pleased  Johnnie  while  they  puz- 
zled him.  It  was  a  wonderful  thing  to  dis- 
cover that  the  caterpillar,  which  he  had  known 
all  his  life,  was  really  the  larva  of  a  lepidop- 
terous  insect;  that  corn  was  maize,  and  that 
74 


BEING  SICK 

cattle  died  of  rinderpest.  In  one  of  the  books 
was  an  ornithological  table,  containing  the 
proper  names  of  birds,  which  was  vastly  en- 
tertaining and  very  instructive  to  aspiring 
agriculturists.  He  found  that  the  sparrow 
belonged  to  the  fringillidae  family;  that  it 
was  gramnivorous  and  also  insectivorous, there- 
fore a  friend  to  the  farmer;  that  the  talpa,  or 
mole,  was  a  genus  of  quadrupeds,  living 
chiefly  underground  and  feeding  upon  insects, 
and  that  silos  were  good  for  ensilage.  No- 
where else,  and  under  no  other  conditions, 
could  Johnnie  have  acquired  the  miscellany  of 
information  thus  afforded.  Truly  he  felt  that 
his  affliction  was  a  blessing  in  thin  disguise. 
In  fact,  to  Johnnie,  the  only  really  unpleasant 
thing  about  being  sick  was  the  getting  well. 
There  came  a  time  when  scarcely  a  shadow  of 
the  disease  remained,  when  even  the  scrupu- 
lous old  doctor  pronounced  him  strong  and 
well,  and  the  manifold  burdens  of  life  had  to 
be  assumed  again.  The  chores  to  which  he 
had  become  a  stranger  began  to  beckon  him 
to  the  barn,  and  long  neglected  errands  ran 
to  meet  him.  Yet  there  was  compensation 
75 


BEING  SICK 

even  for  his  convalescence.  Every  denizen  of 
the  barnyard,  excepting  the  pigs,  seemed 
glad  of  his  return.  Pluto  welcomed  him  with 
heartiness  more  than  human,  and  the  Hired 
Hand  flattered  him  with  kindness  and  solici- 
tude. 

Aunt  Mary  came  over  and  made  him  feel 
especially  delicate  and  spirituelle  by  her 
anxiety. 

'  'Why,  lawsy  me,  Johnnie, ' '  she  exclaimed, 
"I  wouldn't  a'  known  ye!  You  look  so 
peekid  an'  thin.  Sister,  you  reely  must  be 
careful  of  that  boy  or  you'll  never  raise  him. 
Has  he  got  his  flannel  on?  Did  you  ever 
give  him  burdock  tea  and  dandelion?  and 
you  surely  ain't  lettin'  him  go  bare-footed, 
are  you?" 

Such  was  the  psychical  effect  of  her  voluble 
comments  that  Johnnie  crept  off  to  bed  again 
and  came  very  near  having  another  chill. 
But  a  single  dose  of  the  prescribed  burdock 
compound  caused  him  to  rally  quickly. 

Johnnie's  gustatory  nerves  were  developed 
far  in  excess  of  his  sympathetic  system. 


IX 

A  RURAL   SUNDAY 

To  JOHNNIE  Sunday  was  a  day  of  mingled 
joy  and  regret,  of  general  piety  and  individ- 
ual wickedness,  whose  pleasures  were  sub- 
dued, often  surreptitious,  and  whose  duties 
were  stiff  and  irksome,  yet,  when  faithfully 
performed,  brought  something  of  balm  to  the 
conscience.  It  was  but  nominally  a  season  of 
rest.  True,  regular  farm  work  was  strictly 
foregone,  but  the  chores,  the  burden  of  which 
fell  largely  on  his  small  shoulders,  could  not 
be  neglected.  He  had  to  rise  just  as  early  and 
trudge  just  as  far  across  the  pasture  in  search 
of  the  cows  as  on  week  days.  Moreover,  the 
sacredness  of  the  day,  as  interpreted  by  his 
pious  parents,  forbade  his  indulgence  in  levi- 
tous  whistling  and  loud  calling,  such  as  light- 
ened the  labor  at  other  times.  Secular  songs 
were  iniquitous,  and  not  to  be  thought  of,  and 
77 


A  RURAL  SUNDAY 

in  order  to  refrain  from  downright  sin,  on  par- 
ticularly bright  Sunday  mornings,  he  was 
sometimes  compelled  to  compromise  with  the 
spirit  of  the  day  and  his  own  exuberance  by 
humming  the  tune  of  '  Yankee  Doodle"  while 
mentally  inserting  the  words  of  the  doxology. 
Johnnie  was  incensed  by  the  unusual  aban- 
don with  which  the  birds  sang  on  Sunday, 
and  while  morally  shocked  at  their  sinfulness, 
secretly  envied  them  their  liberty.  It  was  not 
naughty,  he  thought,  to  throw  stones  at  them 
under  such  a  double  provocation.  But  he 
did  not  dare  go  far  out  of  his  way  in  their 
pursuit,  for  he  could  never  dismiss  from  mind 
a  tragic  Sabbath-school  paper  tale  of  a  little 
boy  wno  once  followed  a  strange  bird  into  a 
dark  forest  with  uncanny  and  distressing  re- 
sults. It  was  a  very  peculiar  bird,  with  a 
good  deal  of  crimson  in  its  plumage,  and  it 
led  the  thoughtless  boy  on  and  on  until  he 
found  himself  alone  in  the  darkness  with  a 
terrible  thunder  storm  raging.  Then  he 
caught  the  bird,  and — horror  of  horrors! 
Across  its  flaming  breast  in  letters  of  black 
was  written  the  word  "Sin."  The  storm  and 
7? 


A  RURAL  SUNDAY 

the  darkness  were  frightful  enough,  but  the 
supernatural  inscription  the  bird  bore  was  ab- 
solutely blood-curdling.  This  story  impressed 
its  obvious  lesson  upon  Johnnie,  to  beware  of 
strange  birds,  especially  red  ones. 

After  chores  and  breakfast  were  done,  hasty 
preparations  were  made  for  Sunday-school. 
Johnnie's  Sunday  clothes  were  brought  forth 
and  his  bare  and  briar-scarred  feet  bathed  and 
shackled  in  shoes.  Ah!  unhappy  necessity 
of  encasing  this  summer's  feet  in  last  winter's 
shoes ;  it  was  like  imprisoning  a  rosebud  in  a 
block  of  ice.  A  well-dressed  boy  is  always 
a  distressed  boy.  When  Johnnie  donned  his 
Sunday  suit  he  put  off  the  happy  good  humor 
in  which  nature  had  swathed  him,  and  be- 
came as  degenerate  as  Adam  after  the  adop- 
tion of  fig-leaf  apparel.  In  his  old  clothes 
his  peccadillos  were  apt  to  be  of  a  thought- 
less and  harmless  character,  but  when  he  was 
"dressed  up"  he  was  inclined  to  deliberate 
transgression.  On  the  way  to  Sunday-school 
he  dangled  his  feet  over  the  "end-gate"  of 
the  spring  wagon  and  made  monstrous  faces 
at  the  boy  behind.  When  the  class-room  was 
79 


A  RURAL  SUNDAY 

reached  he  wriggled  and  winked  and  pinched 
his  mates  and  chewed  sassafras  root,  making 
believe  it  was  tobacco ;  in  short,  indulged  in 
manifold  forms  of  "original  sin."  In  this 
way  Johnnie  gained  the  reputation  of  being  a 
very  bad  boy,  when  really  it  was  his  stiff,  ill- 
fitting  clothes  that  were  bad. 

Johnnie  always  remained  for  church,  be- 
cause he  had  to,  and  there  the  diversive  alter- 
native of  mischief  failed  him,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  be  content  with  empty  sleep  or  vain 
speculation.  But  even  there  his  elastic  imagi- 
nation was  an  untold  comfort,  and  the  curious 
ideas  and  vaporous  views  of  things  which 
wandered  through  his  mind  as  the  minister 
crept  from  "firstly"  down  to  "lastly"  and 
"again"  and  "in  conclusion"  were  wonder- 
ful to  relate.  He  wondered  why  the  deacon 
in  the  pew  in  front  had  no  hair ;  why  his  head 
was  so  highly  polished ;  how  it  felt  to  be  bald  ; 
if  he  himself  would  ever  be  bald,  and  why 
little  boys  could  not  be  bald  without  waiting 
till  they  grew  up.  He  speculated  as  to  how 
the  preacher  would  look  when  he  became  a 
corpulent  angel  with  wings,  and  as  to  whether 
80 


A  RURAL  SUNDAY 

angels  soared  like  buzzards  or  flopped  their 
wings  like  chickens  or  buzzed  like  flies.  He 
wished  he  had  his  wings  on  now,  and  he  knew 
what  he  would  do  pretty  quick.  He  would 
not  stay  there  very  long.  Wouldn't  it  make 
a  stir,  though,  if  he  should  suddenly  mount  to 
the  ceiling  with  a  glad  flutter  and  go  sailing 
out  through  the  arched  window  across  the 
fields  !  How  high  he  would  soar,  and  to  what 
mighty  distances  he  would  take  his  flight! 
With  such  absurd  fancies  as  these  Johnnie 
passed  the  tedious  hours.  Little  enough  of 
the  minister's  learned  discourse  penetrated  his 
ears,  and  less  found  its  way  to  his  compre- 
hension. 

When  the  final  prayer  was  spoken  and  the 
benediction  pronounced  Johnnie,  in  common 
with  many  of  his  elders,  and,  indeed,  some  of 
the  elders  of  the  church,  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

Home  and  dinner  lay  before  him,  and,  al- 
though the  Sunday  meal  was  likely  to  be 
frugal,  its  crystal  water  and  cold  beans  com- 
prised a  refreshing  oasis  in  the  religious  des- 
ert round  about  him.  Even  a  temporary 
6  81 


A  RURAL  SUNDAY 

shifting  of  the  wind  from  a  spiritual  to  a  phys- 
ical quarter  was  comforting  to  Johnnie. 

After  dinner  Johnnie's  shoes  slipped  off  by 
magic,  and  then  away  the  truant  feet  went 
scurrying  across  the  meadow  with  a  speed 
that  took  his  breath.  Sunday  afternoon,  with 
laziness  loitering  at  his  side  unrebuked,  with 
the  air  full  of  shimmering  dreams  and  indus- 
try fast  asleep  for  the  day !  Sunday  after- 
noon, with  bare  feet,  with  straw  hat,  with  the 
thinnest  and  simplest  of  garments,  with  youth, 
with  hope,  with  a  world  so  full  of  sunshine 
that  its  warmth  overflowed  into  the  shadiest 
nooks — what  rare  possibilities  for  pleasure  it 
possessed ! 

Down  where  the  brook  kept  running  night 
and  day  was  the  favorite  trysting  place  for 
idleness  and  himself.  It  was  out  of  view 
from  the  house  and  haunted  by  no  spec- 
ter from  the  world  of  week  days  or  the  pur- 
gatory of  Sunday  morning.  He  and  the 
dragon  flies  and  water  spiders  alone  knew  the 
secret  of  its  placid  charms.  It  was  such  a 
tiny  stream  that  it  often  became  so  nearly 
lost  in  the  marshes  of  calamus  that  he  had  to 
82 


Q 


A  RURAL  SUNDAY 

stoop  to  find  it,  and  he  could  almost  stop  its 
current  with  his  heel.  Miniature  water-wheels 
were  constructed  along  its  course,  and  fairy 
boats,  which  were  literal  "barks,"  were 
launched  upon  its  breast. 

For  hours  Johnnie  would  recline  on  the 
bank,  his  feet  burrowing  deep  into  the  soft 
mud,  tossing  numberless  chips  into  the  brook, 
to  gaze  after  them  and  wonder  vaguely, 
dreamily,  whither  they  would  drift  at  last. 
And  even  as  the  brook  sang  its  one  song  and 
dreamed  its  one  dream  of  the  sea  the  boy's 
idle  musings  would  turn  toward  distant  man- 
hood, and  he  would  wonder  and  wonder. 
And  the  ultimate  reach  of  his  boyish  imagina- 
tion or  the  final  destiny  of  the  restless  brook 
no  finite  mind  may  determine. 

Sunday  evening  drew  on,  at  length,  with 
the  same  monotonous  round  of  chores  again. 
The  cows  were  to  be  gathered  in  and  milked, 
just  as  if  they  had  never  undergone  the  process 
before,  and  as  the  sun  went  down,  seated  on 
a  three-legged  stool,  his  head  pressed  con- 
fidingly against  old  Brindle's  flank,  his  eyes 
fixed  in  thoughtful  reverie  upon  the  western 

83 


A  RURAL  SUNDAY 

sky,  whether  in  contemplation  of  its  beauty 
or  the  beauty  beyond,  or  of  some  quaint  con- 
ception of  internal  origin,  we  know  not,  John- 
nie bade  devout  adieus  to  many  a  rural  Sun- 
day. 


X 


THE   COUNTY   FAIR 

PERHAPS  the  brightest  anniversary  in 
Johnnie's  calendar  was  the  week  in  Septem- 
ber which  brought  the  County  Fair.  Through- 
out the  long  summer  he  looked  forward  to  it 
with  ever-increasing  gladness.  There  was 
never  any  question  as  to  whether  he  should 
be  permitted  to  attend  the  fair.  It  was  the 
one  great  place  of  amusement  in  his  world 
which  was  eminently  proper,  where  pleasure 
might  be  indulged  in  unstintedly  without  a 
qualm. 

The  fair  ground,  a  spacious  native  grove, 
well  set  in  bluegrass,  was  situated  a  mile 
from  the  corporate  limits  of  the  town.  For 
eleven  months  out  of  each  year  it  was  a  de- 
serted village.  Birds  nested  in  its  trees, 
squirrels  and  chipmunks  gamboled  in  the 
huge  horticultural  hall  and  spiders  worked 
85 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

geometrical  problems  in  amphitheater  and 
bandstand.  Its  utter  emptiness  and  desola- 
tion was  inclined  to  oppress  Johnnie  when  he 
passed  it  on  occasional  commercial  pilgrim- 
ages to  the  county  seat.  A  painful  air  of 
vanished  glory,  of  *  'Vanity  Fair, ' '  seemed  to 
hover  about  it. 

But  annually  with  the  advent  of  autumn  a 
great  army  of  rusticity  invaded  its  precincts 
and,  for  the  space  of  one  week,  it  became  a 
teeming  city  in  miniature.  In  a  general  way 
this  sudden  transformation  was  wonderful, 
while  its  special  features  were  simply  miracu- 
lous. 

On  the  morning  of  the  first  day  of  the  fair 
the  Winkle  household  arose  bright  and  early. 
Johnnie  awoke  from  ecstatic  dreams  with  a 
thrill,  bounced  out  of  bed  and  into  his  clothes 
with  supernatural  agility  and  had  the  horses 
up  from  the  pasture  in  short  order.  There 
was  but  one  matter  of  solicitude  to  mar  his 
joy.  The  weather — which  takes  the  place  of 
fate  on  the  farm — might  prove  unfavorable. 
Perhaps  an  inauspicious  streak  of  scarlet 
vapor  lay  across  the  face  of  the  sun,  or  a  dim, 
86 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

slaty  mass  of  clouds  hung  on  the  western  hori- 
zon,which  might  easily  bring  rain,  and  Johnnie 
waited  upon  the  Hired  Hand  in  a  fever  of 
anxiety  to  learn  his  prediction. 

''You  don't  think  it'll  rain  to-day,  do  you, 
Eph?"  he  asked  with  an  assumption  of  con- 
fidence. Then  Eph,  the  astrologer,  went 
forth  and  scanned  the  heavens,  noted  the 
direction  of  the  wind  and  observed  the  be- 
havior of  the  stock  and  various  meteorolog- 
ical phenomena.  "It  all  de-pends  on  the  way 
the  moon  hung  last  night,"  he  remarked 
gravely,  "which  I  didn't  notice.  The  signs 
is  mostly  favorable" — Johnnie's  countenance 
brightened — "fer  rain,  but  I  ain't  shore." 

As  the  sun  mounted  higher,  however,  the 
clouds  disappeared,  and  at  eight  o'clock  the 
family  was  safely  en  route.  What  a  glamour 
lay  over  the  world  that  morning!  How 
gayly,  how  madly  the  kaleidoscopic  landscape 
circled  on  countless  pivots  as  the  wagon  rum- 
bled on!  Backward  the  fences  and  trees 
of  the  foreground  slipped,  smoothly,  silently, 
while  those  in  the  distance  rushed  ever  for- 
ward, until  Johnnie  almost  convinced  himself 
87 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

that  he  was  really  standing  still  between  two 
mammoth  revolving  planes  of  scenery. 

Once  they  passed  a  field  where  a  boy  of  his 
own  size  was  laboriously  cutting  weeds,  and 
the  sight  made  Johnnie  sick.  He  wondered 
how  any  mortal  could  work  in  that  lonely, 
hot  field  and  the  fair  going  on !  That  boy's 
parents  were  certainly  inhuman  brutes. 

After  a  while  they  found  themselves  in  the 
midst  of  a  long  procession  of  wagons  and  car- 
riages, and  Johnnie  could  scarcely  contain 
himself,  because  they  moved  so  slowly.  A 
mile  ahead  the  fair  ground  loomed  into  sight 
and  yet  it  seemed  they  would  never  reach  it. 
The  distant  hum  of  the  crowds,  like  the  buzz 
of  swarming  bees,  broke  on  their  ears,  and 
presently  the  beatific  strains  of  the  brass  band. 

At  last  they  were  there.  Johnnie  could 
hardly  realize  it,  but  it  was  true.  The  tick- 
ets were  handed  over,  the  gates  were  entered 
and  the  suppressed  hum  of  happy  humanity 
burst  into  a  mighty  chorus.  Johnnie  stood 
up  in  the  wagon  and  tried  to  take  it  all  in. 
Rows  of  canvas  tents,  big  and  little,  flaming 
pictures,  candy  stands,  striking-machines, 
88 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

shooting-galleries,  museums,  minstrels,  ma- 
gicians and  people,  people  everywhere ! 

"Now,  Johnnie,  you  stay  right  here  in  this 
wagon  till  paw  puts  the  horses  away,"  Mrs. 
Winkle  admonished  him,  turning  round. 

But  Johnnie  heard  her  not.  His  attention 
was  fixed  upon  a  beautiful  towsle-haired  girl, 
who  was  entwining  a  monstrous  snake  about 
her  neck.  Slipping  down  he  ran  in  her  direc- 
tion to  get  a  nearer  view.  Immediately  he 
was  swallowed  in  the  multitude,  becoming 
one  of  its  molecular  elements  to  vibrate 
hither  and  thither,  attracted  and  repelled  and 
swept  along  in  irresistible  currents  through- 
out the  day.  The  spirit  of  the  occasion  sat- 
urated him,  in  everything  on  exhibition  he 
found  delight.  Climbing  into  the  amphithe- 
ater he  looked  down  in  admiration  upon 
horses  and  cattle,  such  as  he  saw  daily  at 
home.  He  found  wonders  in  the  way  of 
swine  in  the  pig-sties,  petting  the  baby- 
pigs  and  calling  them  "cute"  just  as  did  his 
city  cousins.  For  the  live-stock  at  the  fair 
was  not  common  live-stock;  the  sheep  were 
aristocrats,  the  poultry  was  pure-bred  and 
89 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

took  premiums,  even  the  pumpkins  on  exhi- 
bition were  unusual,  appearances  to  the  con- 
trary notwithstanding.  Just  as  work  may  be 
lightened  by  calling  it  play,  a  cow  may  be 
completely  transfigured  and  glorified  by  ex- 
hibiting her  at  the  fair.  A  great  deal  de- 
pends on  the  point  of  view. 

Yet  the  more  mysterious  exhibition  going 
on  within  the  big  tent  over  near  the  fence  was 
by  far  the  greatest  attraction,  and  every  path 
Johnnie  tried  finally  led  him  to  its  door.  A 
large,  many-colored  banner  stretched  in  front 
illustrated  a  few  of  the  numerous  wonders  to 
be  seen  on  the  inside,  and  every  now  and 
then  a  mechanically-talking  man  would  come 
out  and  explain  the  pictures.  The  Snake- 
charmer,  the  Prestidigitateur,  the  Woman 
with  the  Iron  Jaw  and  the  Wild  Man  from 
Madagascar  were  all  there — all  to  be  seen  for 
the  paltry  sum  of  ten  cents.  The  price  was 
certainly  ridiculously  low.  At  the  entrance 
sat  a  little  boy,  no  bigger  than  Johnnie,  who 
turned  a  hand  organ,  producing  an  endless 
strain  of  sweet  music.  As  Johnnie  stood  and 
stared,  his  breast  heaved  with  envy  for  that 
90 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

boy.  Doubtless  it  was  his  pa  who  owned 
the  whole  show,  and  he  could  behold  its  mar- 
vels whenever  he  liked.  Johnnie  wished  his 
father  would  turn  showman  and  let  him  grind 
the  organ.  Anyhow  he  was  determined  to 
see  the  inside  of  the  show  before  he  went 
home. 

Eph  stepped  up  behind  him.  "  See  here, 
Sonny,"  he  cried  threateningly,  "What  you 
mean  standin'  roun'  here  an'  everybody  wait- 
in'  dinner  on  ye  an'  yore  maw  putty  nigh 
dis-tracted ! "  When,  a  few  moments  later, 
Johnnie  and  Eph  came  upon  the  family, 
grouped  about  an  immense  expanse  of  snowy 
table  linen  on  the  grass,  what  a  feast  of  all 
that  is  delicious  greeted  their  eyes ! 

Aunt  Mary's  folks  had"  joined  teams" 
with  the  Winkles,  and  the  tender  chicken, 
rich  cake  and  pies  and  jams  and  jellies  and 
luscious  fruit  they  brought  from  their  baskets 
were  astonishing  to  look  upon.  If  the  fair 
needed  a  complement  to  render  its  pleasures 
ideally  perfect,  it  was  found  in  this  picnic  din- 
ner. The  men  and  boys  lolled  on  the  grass 
and  began  reaching  luxuriously  for  bread  and 
91 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

chicken,  while  Mrs.  Winkle  and  Aunt  Mary 
fluttered  about  like  ministering  angels,  vying 
with  each  other  to  anticipate  every  want. 
"Have  some  of  this  here  goose-berry  jelly, 
Johnnie,"  Aunt  Mary  would  say  while  Mrs. 
Winkle  was  piling  a  mountain  of  pastry  under 
Cousin  Henry's  nose;  or  "  Eph,  help  your- 
self to  the  pound-cake — though  Goodness 
knows  it's  the  porest  I  ever  baked." 

Then  the  two  good  housewives  would  get 
together  and  volubly  deplore  how  the  butter 
had  not  * '  gethered ' '  properly,  how  the  bread 
had  refused  to  rise  and  how  the  jam  had 
shown  signs  of  "working."  In  the  mean 
time  the  men  continued  to  eat  heartily  and 
promptly  to  extol  everything  they  tasted.  It 
was  etiquette  for  the  women  to  deprecate  and 
the  men  to  praise  each  article  of  food  pro- 
duced. 

The  meal  was  finished  at  last  and  in  spite 
of  gastric  heaviness  and  conscientious  scru- 
ples Johnnie  made  bold  to  ask  his  father  for  a 
dime,  and  so  overflowing  was  Mr.  Winkle's 
good  humor  that  he  responded  with  a  whole 
quarter, 

92 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

The  show  was  soon  visited  and  an  extra 
nickel  was  invested  in  a  glass  of  red  lemon- 
ade, which  looked  beautiful  and  which  John- 
nie tried  to  imagine  tasted  correspondingly. 

Objects  of  absorbing  interest  were  simply 
innumerable  and  inexhaustible  at  the  fair. 
There  was  a  man  handling  writhing  coils  of 
hot  taffy  as  fearlessly  as  the  girl  handled 
snakes ;  here  was  a  wealth  of  golden  jewelry 
being  given  away  in  prize-boxes;  beyond 
stood  a  huckster  selling  handkerchiefs,  pen- 
cils and  note  paper,  an  armful  for  a  dime. 

Towards  evening  Johnnie  purchased  a  sack 
of  peanuts  and,  leaning  wearily  against  a  tree, 
spent  a  satisfying  half-hour  just  watching  the 
surging  masses  of  people.  To  one  whose  en- 
tire life  has  been  spent  amid  the  pastoral 
quiet  of  the  country,  there  is  a  peculiar  and 
exciting  pleasure  in  seeing  crowds.  The  great 
bustling  world  of  men  and  women  was  to 
Johnnie  largely  a  creature  of  dreams.  Daily 
as  his  mind  had  developed  he  had  come  to 
brood  more  and  more  upon  its  vastness,  but 
he  found  the  reality  of  it  all  hard  to  grasp. 
He  dreamed  of  the  sea  and  saw  it  mirrored  in 
93 


THE  COUNTY  FAIR 

the  mill-pond.  Brooks  answered  for  rivers 
and  the  merest  hills  for  mountains.  But  here 
at  the  fair  only  could  he  get  an  adequate 
glimpse  of  the  world's  inhabitants  collectively 
as  they  were.  Above  and  beyond  all  this,  as 
he  gazed  and  pondered,  he  was  conscious  of 
a  thrill  of  the  intoxicating  charm  of  life  and 
motion  and  felt  for  the  first  time  the  tugging 
of  that  strange,  magnetic  power  of  human 
gravity,  which  yearly  draws  so  many  farmer 
boys  to  town.  These  potent  influences  held 
him  transfixed,  gaping  at  the  multitude  until 
it  was  almost  dark ;  and  when  Eph  found  him 
at  last,  he  followed  that  worthy  monitor  to 
the  wagon  absently,  and  rode  home  in  a  deep 
dream.  And  the  burden  of  his  nebulous  med- 
itations, crystallized  into  words,  would  have 
run  thus :  When  he  became  a  man  he  would 
never  be  content  to  vegetate  on  the  little 
farm,  like  a  weed  in  a  fence-corner.  He 
would  become  a  man  of  the  world ! 


94 


XI 

IN   WINTER 

To  AGE  the  wings  of  time  seem  ruthlessly 
swift.  Every  changing  season  brings  fresh 
regrets,  and  the  passing  of  summer,  the  wan- 
ing of  the  sun  and  the  fading  of  leaves  is 
fraught  with  a  sadness  akin  to  despair.  It 
is  in  the  autumn  that  men  grow  old  and 
feeble,  and  death,  having  thrown  off  all  dis- 
guise, stalks  boldly  abroad  in  the  land.  Only 
in  childhood  time  plods  and  the  procession 
of  the  seasons  moves  too  slowly. 

Summer  slipped  away  from  Johnnie,  unre- 
gretted.  Ere  it  was  half  over  he  had  begun 
to  long  for  the  delights  of  autumn.  By  him 
September  was  greeted  as  gayly  as  April  and 
winter  was  welcomed  with  gladness. 

He  awoke  one  morning  and  straightway 
knew  by  instinct  that  snow  had  fallen  during 
the  night.  A  "feel"  was  in  the  air  of  his 
95 


IN   WINTER 

well-ventilated  bed  chamber,  which  betok- 
ened snow,  and  dressing  in  haste  he  ran  out 
to  revel  in  it.  On  the  eastern  sky  was  a 
gleam  of  crimson,  like  the  glow  in  his  own 
cheeks,  and  everywhere,  on  fence  and  shed- 
roof,  over  the  fields,  up  and  down  the  hills, 
even  to  the  verge  of  the  distant,  shadow- 
cloistered  forest,  lay  the  glittering  waste  of 
snow,  pure  and  untrodden.  Yet  to  be  ac- 
curate there  were  a  few  faint  tracks  upon  it 
already,  and  Johnnie's  eyes  were  quick  to 
observe  them.  Along  the  garden  fence  ran 
a  curious  little  trail,  consisting  of  tiny  dots 
on  each  side  of  a  tortuous  but  continuous 
line,  all  disappearing  suddenly  under  a  rail; 
and  he  knew  a  field  mouse  had  been  there. 
Not  far  away  were  a  few  dainty  triangular 
imprints  where  a  snow  bird  had  alighted. 
Out  in  the  barnlot  was  found  a  labyrinth  of 
furrows,  crossing  and  recrossing  one  another 
in  all  sorts  of  fantastic  figures,  where  the 
cows  had  ambled  about.  One  of  these, 
Johnnie  proceeded  to  follow  briskly  here  and 
there  until  it  brought  him  up  to  old  Brindle, 
shivering  with  snow-encrusted  back,  by  the 

96 


IN  WINTER 

fence,  where  he  had  pretended  not  to  see  her 
before.  The  horses,  the  pigs  and  the  sheep 
all  had  left  separate  and  characteristic  trails 
in  the  snow,  and  each  was  familiar  to  John- 
nie. It  was  over  in  the  orchard,  though, 
that  he  discovered  the  most  alluring  tracks. 
They  consisted  of  two  oblong  impressions 
side  by  side,  with  a  single  larger  one  between 
and  slightly  behind  them,  as  though  made 
by  some  strange,  three-legged  creature. 
These  groups  of  imprints  were  five  or  six  feet 
apart,  and  extended  in  a  semi-circle  across 
the  orchard  lot.  Johnnie  studied  them  with 
the  sagacious  air  of  a  born  huntsman ;  and 
not  only  was  he  able  to  determine  that  they 
had  been  made  by  a  rabbit,  but  also  in  which 
direction  and  with  what  speed  it  had  been 
traveling.  He  had  learned  how  a  rabbit  in 
running  puts  its  fore  feet  down  close  together, 
so  that  they  make  but  one  mark. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  he  armed 
himself  and  took  the  trail.  In  his  haste, 
perhaps,  he  forgot  his  mittens,  but  his  steamy 
breath  had  abundant  power  to  warm  his 
hands. 

7  97 


IN  WINTER 

The  weapon  he  carried  was  not  dangerous. 
It  was  just  a  rusty  old  ax.  Across  the 
meadow,  down  the  hollow,  into  the  silent  heart 
of  the  woods  he  trudged,  unmindful  of  time 
or  distance.  Sometimes  the  tracks  led  him 
among  brambles  and  dense  underbrush,  and 
now  and  then  the  wind  shook  a  crackling 
shower  of  icicles  down  upon  him,  but  he 
pushed  on  undaunted.  Once  as  he  wallowed 
through  a  drift,  the  snow  sifted  into  the  gap- 
ing tops  of  his  boots;  but,  seating  himself 
upon  a  frigid  stump,  he  deliberately  pulled 
them  off  and  emptied  them.  The  frost  nip- 
ped at  his  ears  in  vain.  He  was  proof  against 
cold.  Boys  have  been  sent  on  errands  and 
found  frozen  to  death ;  they  have  started  off 
to  school  and  met  with  the  same  fate ;  but  no 
boy  was  ever  known  to  suffer  from  the  cold 
in  the  least  when  hunting  rabbits. 

After  a  long,  but  exciting  tramp  Johnnie 
came  to  a  point  where  the  trail  "doubled" 
upon  itself,  and  this  was  a  sign  that  the  game 
was  not  far  away.  Sure  enough  the  tracks 
presently  terminated  abruptly  in  a  hollow  log 
and  the  rabbit  was  successfully  ''treed." 
98 


IN  WINTER 

Then  began  a  series  of  scientific  maneuvers 
looking  to  its  capture.  A  rabbit  at  the  end 
of  an  oaken  tunnel,  ten  feet  in  length  and  six 
inches  in  diameter,  is  pretty  securely  fortified 
against  a  small  boy.  But  Johnnie  was  artful. 
Selecting  a  long  hazel  pole,  he  carefully  sharp- 
ened two  prongs  upon  the  smaller  end.  With 
this  instrument  the  animal  was  readily  located. 
And  now  a  very  cruel  and  revolting  process 
was  resorted  to — one  which  it  is  painful  to  de- 
scribe. Yet  from  Johnnie's  standpoint  "twist- 
ing* '  a  rabbit  was  as  much  a  matter  of  course 
as  is  opening  an  oyster  to  a  longshoreman. 
The  forked  stick  was  entangled  in  the  rabbit's 
fur  and  given  a  rotary  motion.  Then  a  swift 
and  forceful  withdrawal  caused  a  plaintive 
squeal  and  brought  forth  a  little  fur,  with 
some  cuticle  clinging  to  it.  This  operation 
was  repeated  again  and  again ;  but  bunny  per- 
sistently refused  to  be  dislodged,  and  it  be- 
came evident  that  other  measures  would  be 
required.  So  Johnnie  executed  a  final  coup 
d'etat.  Plugging  up  the  open  end  of  the  log, 
he  grasped  the  ax  and  began  chopping  a  hole 
directly  over  her  position.  It  was  a  laborious 
99 


IN  WINTER 

undertaking,  but  after  a  half  hour's  work,  the 
denuded  and  dying  rabbit  was  secured.  True, 
from  a  culinary  point  of  view  it  was  worthless, 
for  the  dirt  and  hair  adhering  to  its  skinless 
flesh  could  never  be  successfully  removed; 
but  this  circumstance  did  not  detract  from 
Johnnie's  exultation.  Slinging  it  over  his 
shoulder  by  way  of  magnifying  its  weight  and 
lending  dignity  to  the  affair,  he  proceeded 
manfully  on  the  homeward  march. 

The  way  home  was  very  long — much 
longer,  apparently,  than  the  tortuous  trail 
which  had  led  him  hither,  and  more  hilly. 
The  ax  also  seemed  to  have  gained  materially 
in  weight,  and  was  extremely  burdensome. 
When,  after  reaching  home,  his  mother  sent 
him  out  to  chop  some  stove  wood  he  could 
hardly  wield  the  implement  at  all.  It  took 
him  half  an  hour  to  cut  six  small  sticks,  and 
at  the  end  of  that  time  he  was  almost  frozen, 
too.  He  was  convinced  that  such  exposure 
to  wintry  weather  was  injurious,  and  was  not 
surprised  to  discover  that  his  throat  was  sore 
next  morning. 

Tracking   rabbits   was    but  one   of    many 
100 


IN  WINTER 

delights  which  winter  rendered  possible. 
Coasting,  skating  and  the  molding  of  snow 
men  received  due  attention  from  Johnnie ;  but 
the  absence  of  proper  playmates  made  such 
sports  a  trifle  monotonous  at  times.  Snow- 
balling his  two  unfailing  companions,  Pluto 
and  Eph,  was  not  satisfactory,  because  the 
latter  responded  too  vigorously  and  the  for- 
mer not  at  all. 

In  winter  there  was  a  notable  unpleasant- 
ness connected  with  doing  the  chores.  John- 
nie could  never  understand  how  the  cows 
managed  to  survive  the  winter.  Certainly 
their  chafed  udders  were  the  coldest,  clam- 
miest things  with  which  he  ever  came  in  con- 
tact. He  could  not  milk  in  mittens,  and  as  he 
coaxed  forth  the  life-giving  fluid  shiveringly 
with  blue  bare  fingers,  he  often  wondered  why 
it  did  not  appear  as  ice  cream. 

Another  decidedly  rough  task  was  that  of 
hauling  in  fodder.  This  had  to  be  done  daily 
in  cold  weather,  for  the  cattle's  stomachs 
were  insatiable.  A  shock  of  fodder,  which 
has  stood  in  the  wind  and  rain  all  fall, 
and  has  been  crowned  and  crystallized  by  win- 
101 


IN  WINTER 

ter's  snow  and  ice,  resembles  adamant.  To 
pull  it  apart  and  load  it  upon  a  sled  in  arctic 
weather  is  a  tedious  and  trying  operation. 
A  succession  of  kicks  from  heavy  boot  heels 
loosened  the  "butts";  then  a  long  and  a 
strong  pull  served  to  separate  a  few  stalks ; 
and  these,  when  laid  upon  the  sled,  never  so 
carefully,  were  likely  to  be  scattered  far  and 
wide  by  the  next  gust  of  wind. 

But  the  winter  evenings  were  long  and 
cheerful,  and  an  afternoon  spent  in  the  bitter 
cold  rendered  the  tropical  warmth  of  the  fire- 
place all  the  more  comforting.  The  fire-place 
was  the  sacred  altar  of  the  Winkle  household, 
whose  vestal  fires  were  never  permitted  to 
languish.  After  supper  Mrs.  Winkle  always 
took  tongs  and  shovel  and  prepared  a  ruddy 
bed  among  the  coals  for  the  new  backlog, 
which  Eph  bore  in  pufiingly  and  rolled  into 
place  with  plaintive  groans.  Then  Mr.  Win- 
kle brought  the  forestick  and  some  dry 
clapboards  for  kindling;  and  after  a  few  min- 
utes of  sullen  smoldering,  the  flames  leaped 
merrily  aloft  with  the  refrain  of  a  soaring  lark. 

Then  it  was  that  Johnnie,  ensconced  in  his 
102 


IN  WINTER 

own  little  chair,  with  Pluto  at  his  side,  dreamed 
the  sweetest  dreams  and  formed  the  fondest 
ties  of  all  his  boyhood.  The  conversation  of 
the  family  group  was  apt  to  be  broken  and 
desultory.  Sometimes  Eph  would  regale 
them  with  extended  extracts  from  his  remark- 
able biography,  and  Johnnie  would  listen  in 
wonder  while  his  father  dozed ;  occasionally 
Mr.  Winkle  would  become  retrospective  and 
relate  ancient  anecdotes  of  his  own  youth — 
when  the  pasture  field  was  a  woodland  swarm- 
ing with  wolves — until  Mrs.  Winkle  grew  ten- 
derly reminiscent  and  the  two  would  go  back 
over  the  years  hand  in  hand,  in  fond  allusions 
which  Johnnie  but  dimly  understood;  but 
oftener  they  all  sat  in  peaceful  silence,  accen- 
tuated by  the  steady  tick  of  the  clock,  the 
creaking  of  his  mother's  rocking-chair  and  the 
clink  of  her  busy  knitting  needles,  and  these 
were  the  times  which  Johnnie  recalled  long 
afterwards  as  the  happiest  of  all.  Few,  per- 
haps, are  the  educational  advantages  of  the 
rustic-born,  but  every  farmer  boy  learns  early, 
and  none  ever  forgets,  the  truest,  most  hal- 
lowed meaning  of  the  word,  Home. 
103 


XII 

CHRISTMAS 

THROUGHOUT  the  greater  part  of  the  year 
Johnnie  took  little  note  of  the  almanac.  In  a 
vague  way  he  knew  that  there  were  certain 
rules  between  its  green  covers  which  con- 
trolled the  movements  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
and  he  had  often  seen  Eph  sagely  consulting 
its  pages  when  forecasting  the  weather. 
Moreover  he  was  somewhat  familiar  with  the 
distressful  symbolical  picture  of  the  mutilated 
man,  surrounded  by  twins,  scorpions  and 
goats,  which  embellished  the  first  page,  but 
beyond  this  he  seldom  penetrated. 

As  winter  drew  on,  however,  the  book  an- 
nually acquired  a  new  interest  for  him,  and 
from  Thanksgiving  day  to  Christmas  he  was 
given  to  studying  its  calendar  continuously. 
In  fact  the  first  exhaustive  use  he  ever  made 
of  his  limited  knowledge  of  mathematics  was 
104 


CHRISTMAS 

in  making  repeated  calculations  as  to  just  how 
many  days  remained  until  Christmas,  the  num- 
ber of  which  he  would  carefully  chalk  down 
upon  the  casing  of  the  mantel  over  the  fire- 
place, as  if  he  were  in  danger  of  forgetting  it. 
Johnnie  was  a  true  and  faithful  believer  in 
Christmas,  and  reveled  in  its  joyous  anticipa- 
tions. For  many  weeks  he  dreamed  of  its 
wonders  night  and  day.  But  he  had  already 
grown  too  old  to  believe  the  legend  of  Santa 
Claus  any  more,  and  his  scrupulous  parents 
had  taken  pains  to  undeceive  him  as  to  that 
time-honored  myth.  Really  he  would  have 
been  very  loath  to  believe  them,  however, 
upon  this  point  (it  is  so  much  easier  to  retain 
confidence  in  the  idol-builder  than  in  the 
iconoclast)  had  not  his  own  sharp  eyes  taught 
him  the  stern  truth  of  their  assertion. 

One  memorable  Christmas  eve  he  had  ac- 
cidentally awakened  at  the  critical  hour,  and 
had  discovered,  with  less  than  half  an  eye, 
that  it  was  his  mother  who  was  heaping  things 
into  his  gaping  stockings.  And  so  he  no 
longer  believed  in  good  old  St.  Nicholas,  and 
yet,  down  in  his  boyish  heart,  he  could  not 
105 


CHRISTMAS 

quite  become  disillusioned.  It  is  so  difficult 
to  unlearn  the  delightful  delusions  of  child- 
hood that  it  can  only  be  completely  accom- 
plished with  the  help  of  dull,  disenchanting 
years.  Ah,  the  long,  long  lessons  to  be  un- 
learned— how  hard  and  numerous  they  are ! 
Some  never  succeed  in  unlearning  them  all, 
and  so  much  the  better. 

In  the  light  of  day  Johnnie  was  practically 
sure  that  no  Santa  Claus  existed,  but  at  night, 
after  he  had  said  his  prayer  and  crept  into 
bed,  his  fancy  grew  active,  and  he  was  in- 
clined to  reconsider  the  matter.  Perhaps 
after  all  the  old  tale  was  true ;  perhaps  his 
parents  had  only  been  making  believe  that  it 
was  false.  When  he  was  such  a  little  boy 
that  he  wore  dresses  he  remembered  how  his 
mother  would  take  him  on  her  lap  and  tell 
him  the  story  of  the  children's  saint.  Then 
she  would  relate  that  other  wondrous  tale  of 
the  Christ-child  born  in  a  manger.  The  latter 
story  still  held  true,  and  why  not  the  other? 
Across  his  dreams  came  the  tinkle  of  sleigh- 
bells  and  the  tread  of  reindeer  hoofs  once 


196 


CHRISTMAS 

more,  and  over  his  sleeping  face  hovered  the 
childish  smile  of  infinite  trust  and  faith. 

Christmas  eve,  when  at  last  it  really  came, 
was  a  time  of  glorious  hopes  and  possibilities. 
The  chores  were  done  with  a  will  that  night. 
The  horses  and  cattle  received  double  their 
accustomed  "feed,"  and  the  wood-box  be- 
hind the  kitchen  stove  was  piled  mountain 
high  with  wood.  It  was  a  time  of  general 
good  cheer;  moreover  Santa  Claus,  or  some 
of  his  minions,  might  be  lurking  near  and  it 
was  policy  to  let  one's  virtues  shine.  After 
supper  a  round  of  merriment  was  indulged  in 
by  the  entire  household,  ending  in  a  royal 
game  of  blind  man's  buff.  Then  came  the 
happy  ceremony  of  hanging  up  the  stockings, 
and  after  that,  the  tedious  almost  impossible 
endeavor  to  get  to  sleep. 

"Now  go  right  to  sleep  and  Christmas  will 
be  here  before  you  can  wink,"  Mrs.  Winkle 
would  say  encouragingly.  So  Johnnie  would 
close  his  eyes  and  begin  to  snore  as  soon  as 
he  touched  the  bed.  But  Morpheus  was  not 
to  be  won  by  shamming.  Presently  the  eyes 
popped  open  and  the  snores  ended  in  wake- 
107 


CHRISTMAS 

ful  sighs.  Then  every  known  expedient  was 
tried  by  turns .  Johnnie  endeavored  to  imagine 
that  it  was  not  Christmas  eve  at  all,  but  the 
day  after  Christmas,  or  the  night  of  the  fourth 
of  July,  and  that  there  was  nothing  whatever 
to  look  forward  to;  but  all  to  no  avail.  He 
sang  to  himself,  told  himself  stories,  pounded 
on  the  bedstead  and  turned  over  and  over  and 
over  until  the  bed-clothes  tumbled  to  the 
floor.  Finally  in  the  midst  of  a  profound  at- 
tempt to  think  of  still  another  alternative  he 
fell  asleep. 

At  three  in  the  morning  he  woke  with  a 
start  and  immediately  dressed  and  stole  down 
stairs.  The  night  had  already  stretched  into 
arctic  length  and  he  could  endure  the  sus- 
pense no  longer.  The  fire  was  low  in  the 
fire-place  and  the  room  seemed  a  very  den  of 
uncanny  shadows.  But  through  the  gloom 
his  distorted  stockings  were  faintly  discerni- 
ble, beckoning  him  with  irresistible  allurings. 
He  crept  up  to  them.  Yes,  they  were 
filled  to  overflowing,  and  upon  a  chair  near 
by  was  a  wonderful  surplus  of  mysterious 
packages.  Christmas  morning  dawned  at 
1 08 


CHRISTMAS 

last  with  its  unforgetable  feasts  and  fun. 
No  work  was  to  be  done  that  day.  Gay- 
ety  and  good  cheer  were  the  universal  or- 
der. Even  ordinary  methods  of  pastime 
were  not  to  be  thought  of.  Everything  had 
to  be  unusual  and  splendid.  Aunt  Mary  and 
her  family  were  there  for  dinner  and  Uncle 
Andrew  came  out  from  the  city  with  his 
pockets  full  of  store  candy  and  fire-crackers. 
And  what  a  glorious,  deafening,  sulphurous 
pandemonium  ensued  !  Dinner  was  a  sump- 
tuous meal  but  fraught  with  mockery  for 
Johnnie,  already  surfeited  with  sweetmeats. 

But  how  quickly  it  all  passed !  The  sun 
went  down  shortly  after  dinner,  and  just  as 
Johnnie  felt  himself  nearing  the  zenith  of 
earthly  bliss,  lo,  it  was  bedtime  again.  What 
multitudes  of  childhood's  chief  delights  have 
been  interrupted  by  that  inevitable  hour! 
Bed-time  always  comes  just  at  the  most  inter- 
esting stage  and — presto,  the  game  is  ended. 
Even  to  the  poor,  gray-headed  child  of  four- 
score it  is  ever  the  same — the  last  late  bed- 
time finds  him  weary  and  heavy-eyed  per- 


109 


CHRISTMAS 

haps,   but  wakeful  still   and  eager   to    play 
"just  a  little  while  longer. " 

To  Johnnie  it  was  all  blotted  out  in  a 
strange,  jumbled  dream  and  a  deep  sleep. 
And  on  the  morrow  the  sky  was  overcast,  a 
dismal,  drizzling  rain  was  falling  and  Christ- 
mas was  a  whole  long  year  off ! 


110 


XIII 

THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

THE  flowers  on  the  hillside  unfold  no  more 
gladly,  no  more  trustfully  under  the  showers 
and  sunshine  of  April  than  does  the  heart  of 
boyhood.  They  are  emblems  of  each  other 
— youth  and  spring — and  there  is  a  kinship 
between  them,  an  ancient  kinship  which  it 
were  necessary  to  return  to  the  Maytime  of 
creation  to  trace. 

Springtime  is  ever  generous  and  true  to  the 
boy.  To  him  she  sends  her  earliest  greet- 
ings, to  him  her  promises  are  most  lavish  and 
to  him  she  keeps  them,  every  one.  Signs  of 
the  approach  of  spring  to  which  men  are 
blind,  tokens  which  the  poet  perceives  not, 
are  revealed  to  him. 

What    is    the    first   unfailing  harbinger  of 

spring?     Not  the  fickle  bluebird  that  comes 

flashing  down  the  fence,  like  an  elusive  bit  of 

summer  sky,  nor  the  rash,  uncertain  crocus, 

in 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

struggling  beneath  the  snow.  Poetic  sym- 
bols of  spring  they  may  be,  but  they  proph- 
esy nothing. 

But  the  boy  knows  the  old  gray  mare  is 
inspired.  One  crisp  morning  he  gallops  her, 
bareback,  up  from  the  pasture  and,  on  dis- 
mounting, finds  his  trouser's  legs  thickly 
frosted  with  her  silver  hair. 

There  is  not  a  bird  in  sight,  the  landscape 
is  dull  and  barren,  but  he  has  visible  proof 
that  spring  is  near. 

Do  not  imagine  that  nature  denies  him  her 
more  subtle  auguries,  however.  On  the  con- 
trary it  is  to  the  boy  that  the  sunbeams  bear 
their  earliest  messages  and  the  south  wind 
seeks  him  first  of  all.  The  twitter  of  the  pio- 
neer robin  is  caught  by  his  ear  and  he  notes 
the  first  faint  "quank"  of  the  flock  of  wild 
geese,  pursuing  its  northward  course  across 
the  unknown  ocean  of  the  upper  air. 

When  at  last  spring  comes  creeping  up  the 
valley,  the  boy  goes  forth  to  meet  her,  and 
his  heart  leaps  in  unison  with  the  glad  pulses 
of  universal  life. 

He  is  an  artist  beyond  all  bounds  of  art ;  a 

112 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

poet  above  the  trammel  of  words  and,  being 
such,  he  is  content  to  gaze  upon  the  land- 
scape without  analyzing  it  and  is  satisfied 
with  the  perfume  of  the  commonest  flower.  It 
is  not  simply  the  glimmer  of  reflected  sun- 
shine that  delights  him,  not  the  mere  exter- 
nal beauty  of  the  fields  and  the  balm  of  the 
gentle  weather. 

These  are  but  harmonious  incidents  to  the 
boy,  for  he  communes  with  the  vernal  spirit 
of  the  season,  he  knows  the  true  inner  es- 
sence— that  wondrous  beauty  of  the  heart  of 
things,  and  he  becomes  an  integral  part  of 
the  landscape,  blooming  with  the  flowers, 
whistling  with  the  birds  and  exulting  with  all 
nature.  And  all  the  while  he  is  as  uncon- 
scious of  this  relationship,  as  spontaneous 
and  unaccountable  as  are  the  birds. 

He  finds  a  thrush's  nest  and  robs  it  ruth- 
lessly while  the  thrush  is  away  preying  upon 
insect  life.  He  tosses  a  careless  clod  at  a 
chattering  jay,  which,  in  turn,  proceeds  to 
chase  a  flock  of  inoffensive  sparrows  out  of 
the  woods. 

Perhaps  this  very  wantonness  of  boy  and 
8  113 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

bird  is  the  secret  of  their  exultation  and  en- 
chantment. 

Yet,  while  leaf  and  blossom  are  but  in- 
cidents of  the  season  to  the  boy,  he  is  the 
keenest  of  observers  and  no  detail  escapes 
him.  He  is  a  naturalist  in  a  literal  sense  and 
figuratively  a  pantheist.  The  billowy  verd- 
ure of  the  meadow  impresses  him,  but  no 
more  than  the  vast  minutiae  of  underlife  be- 
neath it. 

Parting  the  grass,  he  becomes  a  gigantic 
member  of  the  colony  of  ants,  a  fellow  of  the 
order  of  the  grasshoppers  and  a  companion  to 
the  beetle  and  the  snail.  Entering  the  clois- 
ter of  the  forest  he  is  straightway  a  primeval 
druid. 

He  comes  close  to  each  phase  of  sylvan  ex- 
istence, climbing  deftly  to  the  upper  haunts 
of  birds  and  squirrels,  and  scraping  beneath 
the  leaves  to  find  the  hidden  abode  of  grubs 
and  "doodle-bugs."  The  caterpillar  and  the 
slug  on  the  mossy  side  of  tree-trunks  and  the 
busy  spider,  oscillating  between  two  worlds, 
are  familiar  to  him. 

Wherever  the  boy  goes  he  finds  adequate 
114 


ENTERING 
THE  CLOISTER 
OF  THE 
FOREST 
p.  1  14 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

expression  of  the  season's  gladness.  Even 
the  domestic  denizens  of  the  barnyard  are 
found  as  vociferous  in  their  joy  as  their  cous- 
ins of  the  field.  All  day  long  the  turkey- 
cock  struts  and  gobbles  in  a  passion  of  proud 
delight,  throwing  back  a  bubbling,  half-chal- 
lenging salute  to  every  sound  he  hears,  and 
when  all  else  fails,  replying  to  his  own  ridicu- 
lous echo  in  jeer  after  jeer. 

More  sedate  and  sentimental  the  chickens 
go  ambling  here  and  there  with  meditative 
duckings  and  croonings  and  occasional  out- 
bursts of  wonder  at  the  warmth  of  the  sun  and 
the  plumpness  of  worms.  The  male  of  their 
tribe  frequently  lifts  his  voice  in  applause  and 
is  inclined  to  all  manner  of  levity,  shocking 
the  nervous  hens  into  hysterics  by  announc- 
ing make-believe  hawks,  and  creating  general 
disgust  by  calling  them  all  to  a  great  feast  and 
then  laughingly  eating  every  morsel  himself. 

The  boy  sees  it  all  and  recognizes  kindred 
spirits  beneath  down  and  feathers  and  nature 
back  of  all. 

It  is  only  after  spring  has  waxed  into  sum- 
mer and  youth  has  waned  into  manhood  that 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

the  boy,  having  become  a  reflective  being, 
and  having  lost  that  sixth  sense  of  insight, 
becomes  impressed  unduly  with  the  outward 
charm  of  things.  Remembering  the  by-gone 
happiness  of  spring  and  recalling  its  sweet 
symbols  he  is  apt  to  attribute  the  one  to  the 
other,  knowing  not,  in  the  ignorance  of  ma- 
turity, that  it  was  potential  joy  which  brought 
forth  bloom  and  song,  and  not  they  which 
caused  the  joy. 

Johnnie  had  reached  the  mature  age  of 
thirteen  when  it  was  decided  that  instead  of 
attending  school  during  the  summer,  he  must 
make  a  hand  on  the  farm.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  joyful  epochs  in  his  life,  and,  in  his 
memory,  stood  ever  next  to  the  proud  day 
upon  which  he  donned  his  first  pair  of  pants. 

As  soon  as  the  delightful  decree  had  been 
pronounced,  he  stole  out  to  the  barn  and 
secretly  practiced  holding  the  plow-handles, 
which  came  almost  to  his  armpits.  The  im- 
plement was  jerked  about  manfully,  while  he 
urged  his  imaginary  horses  forward,  swearing 
a  little  under  his  breath  and  expectorating  be- 
tween his  teeth  after  the  manner  of  the  Hired 
116 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

Hand.  This  rehearsal  he  repeated  daily  until 
the  season  opened  and  plow-time  was  at  hand. 

What  a  glorious  spring  it  was  !  Almost  as 
far  back  as  he  could  remember  heretofore  he 
had  been  compelled  to  start  to  school  just  as 
wild  flowers  and  birds'  nests  were  beginning 
to  be  seductively  interesting.  But  that  season 
he  was  free.  Each  morning  he  was  the  first 
one  astir  about  the  place,  and  there  was  an 
overflowing,  liquid  delight  in  his  whistle  that 
made  the  brown  thrush  pause  and  listen. 

The  eventful  day  came  at  last.  Johnnie 
was  to  perform  a  man's  work.  With  digni- 
fied tread  he  followed  his  plow  into  the  "new 
ground,"  thick  with  stumps,  where  his  mettle 
was  to  be  tested.  It  was  severe  and  exasper- 
ating labor.  The  horses  were  stubborn  and 
the  unwieldy  plow  was  forever  becoming  en- 
tangled in  the  underground  net- work  of  roots. 
At  night  Johnnie  retired  footsore  and  weary, 
and  yet  by  no  means  disheartened  or  even 
disillusioned. 

There  was  a  wondrous,  unforgetable  charm 
for  him  in  these  first  brief  days  of  plow-time. 
The  subtle  odor  of  opening  flowers  and  fresh 
117 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

foliage  mingled  with  the  mellow  aroma  of  up- 
turned sod  and  the  spicy  incense  of  burning 
stumps  and  logs.  Every  cool  breeze  from 
the  adjacent  woods  brought  a  multitude  of 
merry  songs  and  chirpings,  while  the  eye  was 
greeted  on  every  hand  by  those  delicate, 
velvety  tints  of  green,  of  yellow,  red  and  blue, 
which  belong  only  to  the  springtime. 

In  the  midst  of  this  bower  of  beauty  walked 
Johnnie,  doing  a  man's  work.  Perhaps  after 
all  it  was  the  tremendous  importance  of  this 
task  as  much  as  the  charm  of  his  surround- 
ings which  made  him  in  love  with  the  whole 
world. 

When  the  full-blown  summer  came,  how- 
ever, it  found  him  growing  weary  and  rest- 
less, though  he  would  not  confess  the  fact, 
even  to  himself.  Inwardly,  almost  unconsci- 
ously, he  wished  he  could  retire  to  his  com- 
fortable place  at  school  for  a  while. 

The  sun  had  grown  relentlessly  hot,  and 
the  birds  had  gone  so  deep  into  the  forest  that 
their  sleepy  twittering  was  but  barely  audible. 
All  the  more  dainty,  modest  flowers  had  shed 
their  petals  and  succumbed  to  a  host  of  coarse 
118 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY    WAY 

weeds,  while  lurking  thorns  and  brambles  lay 
everywhere  in  waiting  to  vex  bare  feet. 

In  the  space  of  six  weeks  the  corn  had 
climbed  up  to  Johnnie's  shoulders, and  through 
the  long,  lonely  afternoons,  as  he  followed 
the  plow  back  and  forth  across  the  field,  like 
a  huge  monotonous  shuttle,  weaving  a  vast 
woof  of  green  and  black,  his  courage  and  in- 
dustry faltered  sadly. 

There  was  little  rest  to  be  found  within 
the  confines  of  the  corn-field.  As  often  as  he 
halted  his  team  and  mounted  the  fence  for  a 
"breathing  spell"  a  swarm  of  flies  and  mos- 
quitoes hovered  round  him,  while  a  choir  of 
tiny  gnats  sang  a  shrill  falsetto  in  his  ears. 

The  rainy  day  now  came  to  be  Johnnie 's 
one  great  hope  and  consolation,  and  he  kept  an 
ever-watchful  eye  upon  the  weather.  A  cloud 
no  bigger  than  his  hand  was  greeted  with 
satisfaction,  and  the  rumble  of  distant  thunder 
was  music  to  him.  And  when  a  shower  came 
slanting  across  the  landscape,  with  what  as- 
tonishing alacrity  did  he  unhitch  his  horses 
and  gallop  to  the  barn. 

There  was  no  comfort  in  after  life  to  be 
119 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

compared  to  that  which  was  his  as  he  lolled 
in  the  mow  and  listened  to  the  clatter  of  the 
rain  on  the  clapboard  roof  above  and  the  rest- 
ful munching  of  the  horses  eating  hay  below. 

"This  here's  a  reg'lar  ol'  sockdolager!" 
observed  Eph  approvingly. 

"It'll  make  it  too  wet  to  plow,  won't  it?" 
asked  Johnnie. 

"Well, I  should  reckon,"  was  the  gratify- 
ing response.  "Doubt  if  we  don't  git  to  plow 
no  more  this  week." 

Johnnie's  eyes  shone  gleefully  at  this,  and 
he  involuntarily  brought  forth  a  tangle  of  fish 
lines  from  his  pocket.  But  just  then  the 
rain,  after  a  cruelly  reassuring  dash,  suddenly 
ceased.  Johnnie  hastened  out.  He  scratched 
into  the  earth  with  his  toes  and  found — dust 
at  the  depth  of  an  inch ! 

The  rainbow  in  the  east  was  anything  but  a 
symbol  of  hope  to  him.  The  western  sky 
was  clearing,  and  with  redoubled  intensity  the 
hot  sun  poured  its  rays  upon  the  humid  earth. 

"Hurry  back  to  the  field,  boys,"  called 
Mr.  Winkle  from  the  house,  "this  shower'll 
start  the  weeds  agin." 

1 20 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

At  such  a  time  the  corn-field  presented  all 
the  essentials  of  a  Turkish  bath.  As  John- 
nie walked  between  the  rows  of  corn  every 
blade  of  every  stalk  emptied  a  stream  of  warm 
water  down  his  back,  while  the  moist  ground 
exhaled  a  palpable  and  penetrating  steam. 

But  "into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall," 
and  happily  for  Johnnie  the  showers  were  not 
always  of  such  brief  duration. 

Sometimes  it  rained  constantly  for  days  to- 
gether. Then  was  Johnnie  thoroughly  reju- 
venated once  more.  He  did  not  dread  get- 
ting wet,  when  in  pursuit  of  pleasure.  In 
fact  he  seemed  to  revel  and  luxuriate  in  the 
rain,  and,  with  trousers  rolled  high  above  his 
knees,  dabbled  up  and  down  the  creek  like  a 
young  ichthyosaurus. 

Continued  "wet  spells"  were  rare,  how- 
ever, long,  withering  droughts  being  much 
more  frequent;  and  thus  the  summer  days 
dragged  on  in  tedious  repetition. 

But  even  in  the  drudgery  of   plowing  corn 

Johnnie   was    not   entirely   deserted    by    his 

dreams.     Often  fair  visions  wavered  in  the  air 

about  him,  and  in  his  ears  there  seemed  to 

121 


THE  PLOUGHMAN'S  WEARY  WAY 

sound  far  strains  of  mystic  music.  Low 
down  on  the  eastern  horizon  he  noticed  a 
dusky  cloud  of  smoke  which  marked  the  po- 
sition of  the  distant  city. 

As  time  went  by  this  metropolitan  specter 
acquired  a  fascination  for  Johnnie.  Day 
after  day  he  gazed  at  it  dreamily  as  it  drifted 
along,  and  every  new  fantastic  shape  it  as- 
sumed seemed  to  beckon  to  him  across  the 
fields.  An  indefinable  longing  came  over 
him,  and,  out  of  the  immaterial  smoke,  his 
fancy  built  strange  and  wonderful  air-castles. 

Slowly  the  simple  country  life  was  losing 
its  charm  for  him.  The  little  world  into 
which  he  had  been  born  was  growing  too  nar- 
row to  live  in.  He  wondered  how  his  father 
and  his  neighbors  had  borne  such  a  barren 
existence.  And  slowly  but  surely,  the  half- 
formed  wish  became  a  fixed  resolve:  He 
would  some  day  go  to  the  city. 


122 


XIV 


WHILE  Johnnie's  material  world  contracted, 
his  intellectual  outlook  grew  somewhat  wider. 
As  the  hedge  of  forest,  which  formed  his  hor- 
izon, drew  nearer,  the  mystery  beyond  it 
grew  less  dense.  And  yet,  as  things  once 
strange  became  familiar,  new  wonders,  un- 
dreamed of,  came  into  view.  Physically, 
spiritually,  sentimentally  Johnnie  was  chang- 
ing, was  developing;  yet  this  evolution  was 
imperceptibly  slow. 

Each  morning  the  same  little  boy  appeared 
at  the  Winkle  breakfast  table  who  had  eaten 
supper  there  the  night  before;  but  each 
Christmas  a  new  boy  hung  up  larger  stock- 
ings, and  every  May-day  was  greeted  by  a 
comparative  stranger. 

Among  the  new  and  peculiar  physical  traits 
123 


"BUDDING" 

which  his  thirteenth  summer  brought  him  was 
a  notable  and  ungainly  lankness.  His  limbs 
approached  the  length  and  ungraceful  contour 
of  an  anthropoid  ape's,  and  came  unjointed. 
Similarly  strange  mental  characteristics  were 
evinced.  He  became  excessively  shy  and 
self-conscious,  blushing  more  readily  than  of 
yore. 

In  fact  Johnnie  had  reached  that  nameless, 
incongruous  stage  of  youthfulness,  of  which 
the  nonsensical  term  " hobbledehoy"  is  our 
only  fitting  appellation.  Though  still  a  little 
boy,  he  was  no  longer  a  child ;  though  ap- 
proaching manhood,  he  was  yet  far  from 
manhood's  estate. 

There  is  no  way  to  describe  and  no  way  to 
account  for  the  boy  between  the  ages  of 
twelve  and  fifteen.  He  is  an  anomaly — an 
inconsistent,  illogical,  indeterminate,  im- 
proper fraction,  with  a  variable  numerator  and 
an  unknown  denominator.  No  one  under- 
stands him  and  least  of  all  does  he  understand 
himself. 

When  the  girl  arrives  at  womanhood's 
threshold  she  simply  does  up  her  hair,  length- 
124 


"BUDDING" 

ens  her  skirts  and  trips  gracefully  in.  But 
the  boy  is  made  to  linger  at  manhood's  door, 
awkwardly  shifting  his  feet,  for  an  indefinite 
period. 

Among  the  legion  of  unstable,  quixotic 
qualities  which  go  to  make  up  the  hobblede- 
hoy, there  is  one  nearly  constant  and  always 
significant.  This  is  his  novel  and  reverential 
admiration  for  womankind.  Heretofore  John- 
nie had  formed  certain  boyish  attachments  for 
particular  girls,  usually  greatly  his  senior, 
but,  for  their  race  in  general,  he  had  a  su- 
preme contempt. 

Girls,  as  he  had  observed  them,  were  weak 
and  cowardly  and  inclined  to  be  "goody-good- 
ies'1 and  tattle-tales.  But  now,  by  some 
strange  miracle,  the  scales  had  dropped  from 
his  eyes,  and,  whichever  way  he  turned,  he 
seemed  to  find  new  phases  of  feminine  beau- 
ty. Maidens  with  whom  he  had  played  and 
quarreled  all  his  life  began  to  wear  halos. 
Freckled  faces  shone  v/ith  lily-whiteness,  snub 
noses  assumed  graceful  outlines  and  brown 
eyes,  and  blue,  were  alike  beautiful  and 
bright. 

125 


"BUDDING" 

Perhaps  this  transformation  was  not  alto- 
gether fancied — no  doubt  the  girl-buds  of  his 
own  age  were  beginning  to  unfold  a  little  pre- 
tentious color  here  and  there ;  but  chiefly,  it 
was  a  subjective  illusion,  and  in  its  effects  it 
was  purely,  nay,  painfully  such. 

Johnnie's  very  meditations  grew  altered. 
Plans  for  the  remote  future  were  relinquished 
in  favor  of  more  immediate  accomplishments. 
He  became  concerned  not  so  much  with  what 
he  should  do  when  a  man  as  what  he  should 
do  next  week.  Such  trivial,  temporal  mat- 
ters as  dress  commanded  his  attention,  and 
he  took  to  washing  his  face  and  hands  volun- 
tarily. On  Sunday  afternoons  he  went  no 
more  into  the  depths  of  the  forest,  but  lolled 
listlessly  at  its  verge. 

Gradually  his  day-dreams  accustomed  them- 
selves largely  to  the  sweet  theme  of  love,  and 
out  of  odd  fragments  of  experience  and  fancy 
an  ideal  of  feminine  loveliness  was  formed  in 
his  breast. 

Johnnie  was  altogether  unconscious  of  this 
creative  process,  and  scarcely  recognized  the 
import  of  his  brooding.  But,  with  the  length- 
126 


"BUDDING" 

en  ing  of  his  legs  and  arms,  with  the  expand- 
ing of  his  mentality  and  the  augmentation  of 
awkwardness,  the  ideal  grew. 

When  one  day  Fate — if  Fate  may  be  truly 
said  to  interest  herself  with  such  affairs — 
brought  the  dreamy  boy  into  contact  with 
Miss  Mabel  Meadows,  queenly  twelve-year- 
old  daughter  of  the  new  neighbor,  who  had 
purchased  the  Shanks  place,  straightway  the 
subtle,  shadowy  ideal  became  a  living,  palpi- 
tating reality. 

It  happened  in  a  properly  romantic  way. 
Johnnie  was  roving  through  the  woods  knight- 
errantly  in  a  desultory  search  for  adventure 
and  his  father's  cows,  when  he  was  startled  to 
hear  a  sudden  cry  of  alarm  near  at  hand. 
Parting  the  hazel  brush  he  beheld  a  very  pale, 
very  young  lady  apparently  paralyzed  with 
fear,  and  a  very  small  garter  snake  in  a  simi- 
lar state,  staring  fixedly  at  each  other. 

Johnnie  did  not  know  the  girl,  and  hesi- 
tated to  announce  himself  without  having  had 
an  introduction,  but  the  snake  presently 
started  to  wriggle  away,  and  it  was  against 
the  vows  of  his  order  to  permit  a  snake  to 
127 


"BUDDING" 

escape.  So  he  charged  gallantly  through  the 
brush,  and  in  another  moment  was  holding 
the  squirming  reptile  at  arm's  length  by  the 
tail. 

"Ooh!  Ooh!  Ooh!"  shrieked  the  young 
lady. 

"What  you  'fraid  of?"  asked  Johnnie, 
grinningly.  "It  ain't  pizen." 

"Oh,  the  horrid  thing!"  cried  she. 

"Jist  watch  me  settle  its  hash,"  said  John- 
nie fearlessly ;  and  amid  renewed  screams  on 
the  girl's  part,  he  proceeded  to  lash  the  hap- 
less serpent  against  a  tree. 

"Now  I  guess  it  won't  scare  no  more  girls," 
he  remarked,  tossing  it  to  the  ground. 

But  the  girl  had  begun  to  sob  piteously, 
and  this  disturbed  Johnnie.  He  stared  at  her 
a  few  moments  and  then  observed  doubtfully, 
"It  wasn't  a  pet  snake,  was  it?" 

"O  dear  no,"  she  murmured.  "It  was 
wild,  and  was  goin'  to  bite  me  if — if  you 
hadn't  come." 

Johnnie  could  not  restrain  a  smile  of  deris- 
ion. "Aw,  it  wouldn't  bite  a  flea,"  said  he. 
"It  ain't  that  kind.  Say,  I'm  goin'  to  turn 
128 


"BUDDING" 

it  on  its  back,  so  it'll  rain.  If  you  leave  a 
snake  on  its — its — stomick  it  won't  rain  at 
all." 

"What  kind  is  it?"  asked  the  girl,  coming 
nearer. 

"Oh,  it's  a  common  enough  kind,"  he 
answered  evasively.  He  did  not  like  to  tell 
her  its  rather  indelicate  name. 

"Yes,  but  what  kind,"  she  persisted. 

"Aw,  what  you  hold  your  stockin's  up 
with,"  he  stammered,  blushing  violently. 

"Oh,"  said  she.  Then  there  was  an  awk- 
ward silence,  during  which  the  girl  glanced 
shyly  at  Johnnie,  and  Johnnie  gazed  at  the 
dead  snake. 

4  'What's  your  name?"  she  asked  presently, 
toying  with  her  apron. 

"Jawn  Winkle,"  said  he  sheepishly, 
"What's  your'n?" 

"My  name  is  Mabel — Mabel  Meadows," 
she  responded. 

Another  pause  ensued,  and  the  girl  care- 
fully adjusted  her  bonnet. 

Then  "Good-bye,  John,"  she  exclaimed, 
turning  upon  him  with  a  sudden  radiant 
9  129 


"BUDDING" 

smile;  and,  with  fairy-like  lightness  and 
grace,  she  drifted  away. 

' '  Good-bye,  Mabel, ' '  cried  Johnnie  hoarse- 
ly, when  he  had  recovered  his  voice.  But 
she  was  gone. 

A  soft  golden  gleam  illumined  the  woods 
and  a  vernal  odor,  as  of  fresh-blown  violets, 
permeated  the  air.  A  dove  in  a  distant  tree- 
top  nodded  approvingly  and  gave  voice  to 
the  tender  sentiments,  welling  up  in  the  heart 
of  all  nature,  in  mellifluous  coo  after  coo. 
And,  although  Johnnie  seemed  oblivious  to 
these  circumstances  now,  many  a  time  after- 
ward he  recalled  every  detail  with  distinct- 
ness. 

For  months  to  come  he  never  heard  the 
moaning  of  a  dove,  nor  killed  a  snake,  with- 
out thinking  of  the  day  he  first  met  Mabel. 

How  long  he  lingered  on  this  hallowed 
spot  he  knew  not;  but  at  length  he  roused 
from  a  reverie  and,  taking  up  the  snake  as  a 
memento  of  the  occasion,  started  home. 

He  was  still  so  absorbed  in  thought  that 
the  cows  were  forgotten,  and  it  was  not  until 


130 


"BUDDING" 

he  entered  the  barnyard  bearing  his  reptilian 
treasure,  that  his  wits  returned. 

Henceforth  Mabel  Meadows  was  the  angel 
of  Johnnie's  dreams.  He  remembered  her  in 
his  prayers  and  thought  of  her  whenever 
tempted  to  rob  a  bird's  nest  or  swear. 

It  is  an  instinct  of  the  hobbledehoy  to  con- 
ceal his  ardent  passion  religiously.  He  will 
allow  it  to  eat  his  heart,  will  suffer  upon  the 
rack,  and  not  reveal  it.  And  the  principal 
cause  of  this  secretiveness  is  not  really  the  sa- 
cred nature  of  his  love,  nor  a  tendency  to  be 
selfish,  but  the  haunting  fear  of  being  "  made 
fun  of." 

A  boy  would  rather  be  lashed  with  a  cat- 
o'-nine  tails  than  be  laughed  at. 

No  murderer  ever  guarded  his  crime  more 
scrupulously  than  did  Johnnie  conceal  his 
love.  He  mentioned  Mabel's  name  to  no 
one,  and  did  not  even  permit  himself  to  think 
of  her,  except  when  alone. 

One  day  when  Mr.  Meadows  came  to  see 
his  father,  Johnnie  ran  and  hid  for  fear  his  se- 
cret might  in  some  way  be  discovered,  after- 


"BUDDING" 

wards  asking  Eph  who  the  visitor  was,  as  if 
he  had  no  idea. 

When  school  opened  that  fall  Johnnie 
started  in  a  fever  of  expectancy.  All  the 
way  he  argued  with  himself  pro  and  con,  as 
to  whether  Mabel  would  be  likely  to  be  there, 
and  formulated  a  careful  schedule  of  what  his 
behavior  should  be  in  either  case.  How  his 
heart  thumped  as  he  drew  near  and  beheld 
her,  standing  alone  on  the  stiles ! 

But  a  group  of  boys  sat  on  the  fence  not 
far  away,  and  banishing  all  former  plans, 
Johnnie  suddenly  resolved  to  pretend  not  to 
know  her.  That  seemed  to  be  the  only  out- 
let for  escaping  his  mates'  ridicule. 

Assuming  an  air  of  easy  carelessness,  he 
sauntered  on.  "Howd'y,  John,"  whispered 
the  girl  as  he  brushed  past  her. 

Johnnie's  face  flushed  and  his  heart  beat  so 
loudly  that  he  had  no  doubt  she  heard  it,  but 
he  offered  no  sign  of  recognition. 

This  apparently  unprovoked  slight  cut  Ma- 
bel  to    the    quick.      Yet,    if    she    had    only 
known  it,  Johnnie  was  wounded  by  it  much 
more  seriously  than  she. 
132 


.    BEHELD 
HER 

STANDING 
ALONE  ON 
THE  STILES 
P.   132 


"BUDDING" 

*  If  she  but  knew ' ' — he  whispered  to  him- 
self week  after  week.  But  he  could  no  more 
tell  her  than  if  he  had  been  born  dumb. 


133 


XV 

THE   BANE   OF    BASHFULNESS 

OF  all  the  phenomena  of  boyhood,  per- 
haps, the  state  of  being  bashful  is  the  most 
ridiculous  and,  subjectively,  the  most  rueful. 
It  is  the  fate  of  most  boys  to  pass  through  a 
more  or  less  prolonged  period  of  bashfulness ; 
but,  like  the  measles  and  mumps,  it  is  an 
affliction  which  varies  greatly  in  different  in- 
dividuals. In  extreme  cases  it  is  probable 
that  it  has  suppressed  and  ruined  what  might 
have  been  brilliant  careers ;  that  Miltons  have 
been  rendered  forever  mute  and  inglorious  by 
its  bane. 

Now  and  then  a  boy  is  found  whose  bash- 
fulness  is  so  pronounced  that  his  freckles 
stand  out  on  a  facial  background  of  continual 
blushes,  like  flecks  of  rust  on  a  red  apple, 
and  his  eyes,  which  really  have  less  cause  to 
be  downcast  than  the  optics  of  any  of  his 
134 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

elders,   are   constantly  averted,  so  that  their 
color  is  a  matter  of  conjecture. 

Such  a  boy  is  simply  a  ruddy,  palpitating 
bundle  of  mortification.  He  is  never  at  ease 
— never  his  natural  self,  save  when  alone.  He 
is  always  making  ludicrous  blunders,  and  is 
always  painfully  aware  of  them.  The  knowl- 
edge that  he  is  bashful  tortures  him,  and  this 
self-consciousness  in  turn  serves  to  render  his 
bashfulness  more  intense.  Wherever  he  goes 
he  is  a  self-imposed  martyr,  refraining  from 
activity  for  fear  of  attracting  notice,  his  stud- 
ied efforts  to  keep  in  the  background  all  the 
while  making  him  conspicuous. 

Johnnie  Winkle,  who  had  been  at  different 
periods  a  good  boy,  a  cute  boy,  a  pert 
boy,  a  mischievous  and  sometimes  a  bad 
boy,  became  known  far  and  wide  as  a  bash- 
ful boy.  He  was  confessedly  afraid  of  girls. 
Other  boys  whom  he  could  outrun,  outjump, 
spell  down  and  thrash,  easily  surpassed  him 
in  grace  and  gallantry.  Every  recess  friends 
and  enemies  of  his  joined  the  girls  in  gay 
games  of  forfeit  and  "Rowser,"  without  em- 
barrassment. Yet  he  could  not  even  ad- 
135 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

dress  a  coherent  remark  to  a  girl.  It  was  a 
lamentable,  woful  weakness  to  a  boy  of  John- 
nie's spirit.  He  lay  awake  of  nights  heaping 
imprecations  upon  it,  and  resolved  to  do  all 
sorts  of  dreadful  things. 

What  especially  tortured  him  was  the  sorry 
figure  he  continued  to  cut  in  Mabel  Meadows' 
eyes.  From  the  fateful  day  on  which  he  had 
deliberately  insulted  her  by  refusing  to  ac- 
knowledge her  acquaintance,  she  had  quite 
properly  ignored  his  existence.  Moreover, 
of  late  she  had  become  great  friends  with 
"Reddy."  Johnnie  had  licked  Reddy  and 
could  do  it  again  any  day ;  but  in  social  mat- 
ters the  tables  were  turned.  Reddy,  alias 
Jimmy  Jenks,  when  he  reached  the  age  at 
which  he  ought  to  have  been  bashful,  had  be- 
come more  forward  and  piggishly  presumptu- 
ous than  ever. 

Altogether  the  unfortunate  state  of  affairs 
humiliated  Johnnie  to  the  verge  of  despera- 
tion. Jealousy  toward  one  whom  he  had  al- 
ways held  in  the  utmost  contempt  was  added 
to  his  pangs. 

In   the   course  of  time  a   party   was    an- 

136 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

nounced  at  Mabel's,  and  Johnnie  was  invited. 
With  a  solemn  oath  he  declared  his  intention 
to  go.  Not  only  would  he  attend  the  party, 
but  he  would  take  active  part  in  the  games, 
and  be  a  man,  so  help  him !  It  had  come  to 
this.  He  must  either  do  or  die — or  both. 
The  eventful  night  was  not  slow  in  coming ; 
in  fact,  it  came  with  a  swiftness  that  was  terri- 
fying. But  Johnnie  remained  firm.  Early 
in  the  evening  he  dressed  and  sallied  forth. 

He  approached  the  house  stealthily  from 
the  rear  with  scarcely  a  tremor.  He  knew 
he  would  not  go  in,  for  it  was  hours  too  early 
yet.  Seating  himself  on  the  fence  he  fondly 
watched  the  house,  which  held  his  beloved, 
fade  away  in  the  dusk. 

At  length,  lights  began  to  shine  at  the 
windows  and  he  heard  voices  in  the  yard. 
Growing  panicky  he  slipped  down  and  crept 
back  into  the  woods.  There  a  fierce  battle 
was  waged  in  his  breast.  Pride  kept  saying 
over  and  over  "I  will  go  in,"  but  as  soon  as 
he  reached  the  fence  again,  timidity  would 
make  a  sudden  charge  and  say  firmly  "I 
won't  go  in." 

137 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

After  repeated  routs,  rallies  and  flank 
movements,  however,  pride  won  the  day — 
or,  rather,  the  night — and  Johnnie  found 
himself  at  the  party. 

He  marched  in  boldly  and  flung  himself  into 
the  thick  of  the  merriment,  laughing  and 
chattering  until  some  were  made  to  believe 
that  he  was  having  a  good  time.  But,  alas, 
it  was  only  by  sheer  force  of  will  that  he  as- 
sumed to  be  at  ease,  and  the  feeling  grew 
upon  him  that  he  was  talking  stupidly,  laugh- 
ing idiotically  and  acting  the  fool. 

The  strain  was  too  great,  and  in  the  midst 
of  it  all  Johnnie  broke  down.  The  tide  of 
bashfulness  came  surging  back  upon  him, 
sweeping  him  off  his  feet.  He  dropped  out 
of  the  game,  murmured  something  about  go- 
ing home  and  began  peeping  about  under 
sofas  and  chairs  in  an  aimless  way  until 
Mabel  asked '  'Why,  what  is  the  matter,  John  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  I  was  jist  looking  round/'  he  re- 
plied carelessly.  "I  wonder  where  my  hat 
is." 

"It's  on  the  rack  in  the  hall,  isn't  it?"  sug- 
gested Mabel.  Then  she  ran  and  got  it  for 
138 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

him.      ''Must   you    really    go?"    she    asked 
anxiously. 

Johnnie  would  not  hurt  her  feelings  for  the 
world.  "Oh,  no;  I  guess  I'll  wait  a  while 
yet, ' '  he  answered  obligingly.  "I  just  wanted 
my  hat,"  and  he  laughed  vacantly. 

"'Fraid  somebody 'd  steal  it?"  suggested 
Reddy,  elbowing  by  with  a  smirk;  and  John- 
nie was  too  shamed  even  to  resent  his  rival's 
insolence. 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  stood  around 
engaged  in  clinging  to  his  hat  and  blushing. 
He  would  have  gone  home — he  would  rather 
have  gone  home  than  to  heaven — but  one 
insurmountable  obstacle  lay  in  his  way. 
Etiquette,  that  constant  plague  of  bashful 
boyhood,  required  that  he  should  thank  his 
hostess  for  the  pleasures  of  the  evening  be- 
fore departing;  and  this  he  could  not  do. 

So  he  lingered  on,  like  the  boy  on  the 
burning  deck,  and  in  much  the  same  state  of 
mind,  until  "all  but  him  had  flown." 

As  the  others  spoke  their  polite  farewells, 
he  had  listened  intently  to  each  formula,  and 
had  decided  that  he  would  say : 
139 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

"I  assure  you,  Miss  Mabel,  I  have  had  a 
delightful  time."  Drawing  himself  up  in  line 
at  last  he  began,  "I  have  had  an  assuring 
time — I  mean  I'm  delightful,  Miss  Mabel," 
he  stammered,  gazing  yearningly  at  the  door- 
knob. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mabel,  courteously. 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  I'm  sure,"  rejoined  John- 
nie affably,  grinding  his  teeth;  then,  "Well, 
I  guess  I'd  better  be  goin'." 

"Really?"  smiled  Mabel. 

"I  think  I'd  better;  it's  gittin'  late." 

"Yes." 

He  had  reached  the  door  and,  having  ex- 
hausted all  his  powers  of  conversation,  was 
staring  awkwardly  at  the  floor  when  he  heard 
Reddy's  well-known  voice  at  a  window: 

"Aw,  come  off!"  it  exclaimed ,  derisively ; 
and  with  murder  in  his  heart  Johnnie  rushed 
wildly  out. 

This  was  all  very  amusing,  or  harrowing, 
according  to  the  point  of  view.  To  the  ma- 
licious Reddy  it  was  funny ;  to  Johnnie  it  was 
simply  calamitous.  Not  being  a  natural  fool 


140 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

he  realized  his  folly,  and  indeed  magnified 
it  to  terrible  dimensions. 

All  the  way  home  in  fancy  he  could  hear 
Mabel  and  Reddy  making  merry  together 
over  his  stupidity,  till  the  very  welkin  rung 
with  their  mockful  laugh.  With  every  step 
he  muttered  an  evil,  "doggone  it,  doggone 
it."  There  were  no  stars  in  the  sky,  no  dew 
was  on  the  grass — the  world  was  an  immense 
mass  of  darkness  whirling  through  a  universe 
of  gloomy,  gray  mist;  and  life  was  the  emp- 
tiest of  idle  dreams. 

Sadly  he  stole  up  to  his  bedchamber — his 
cheerless  bedchamber,  from  which  he  had 
gone  forth  so  full  of  hope,  of  vaunting  pride 
and  fond  ambition  a  few  brief  hours  before. 
Sadly  he  tumbled  into  bed,  and  with  his  last 
waking  breath  sighed  soulfully  again,  "dog- 
gone it." 

Johnnie  resolved  never  to  venture  upon  the 
social  sea  again.  Never  would  he  expose 
himself  to  the  taunts  of  his  inferiors  and  the 
ridicule  of  dear  Mabel  any  more.  Evidently 
nature  had  not  fitted  him  to  shine  in  compa- 


141 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

ny.  And  what  was  the  use  of  opposing  na- 
ture's unalterable  plans  ? 

His  lot  was  to  be  that  of  the  recluse.  So 
be  it.  He  would  retire  meekly  to  the  lonely 
depths  of  the  forest  and  become  a  hermit, 
living  sparsely  and  brokenheartedly  upon  nuts 
and  herbs.  Man  he  would  shun  and  the  face 
of  woman  never  look  upon  again.  The  four- 
footed  and  feathered  folk  of  the  woods  should 
be  his  only  friends. 

He  planned  how  he  would  build  himself  a 
nest  in  the  top  of  a  giant  oak,  where  the  winds 
would  rock  him  to  sleep,  while  the  silent  stars 
watched  above  him  and  the  wretched  world 
unwept  sank  out  of  sight. 

Day  after  day  he  would  awaken  ere  the 
sun,  and  descending  from  his  high  abode, 
gather  his  scant  supply  of  food  with  the 
squirrels,  to  scamper  aloft  again  before  slug- 
gard humanity  stirred. 

If,  at  any  time,  his  serenity  should  be  dis- 
turbed by  a  human  presence,  if  some  girl — as 
Mabel,  for  instance — should  chance  to  stray 
within  the  boundaries  of  his  realm,  how 
haughtily  he  would  stare  down  at  her  through 
142 


THE  BANE  OF  BASHFULNESS 

the  foliage  !  And  if  she  should  happen  to  lift 
her  eyes  and  see  him  as  he  swung  airily  from 
bough  to  bough,  if  a  look  of  anguished  long- 
ing should  overspread  her  face,  if  she  should 
break  forth  in  remorseful  lamentations  and  beg 
him  to  come  back,  come  back  to  her — well, 
his  voice  would  tremble,  maybe,  and  his  eyes 
might  grow  misty;  but  he  would  answer  her 
calmly,  tenderly  but  firmly,  "It  is  too  late, 
Mabel;  alas,  too  late." 

Johnnie,  furthermore,  decided  as  to  how 
he  would  dispose  of  Reddy  if  he  ever  came 
across  his  path ;  and  his  foreordained  treat- 
ment of  that  worthy,  while  less  poetical,  was 
fully  as  gratifying  as  his  imaginary  interview 
with  Mabel. 


143 


XVI 

THE   RALLY 

IT  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  in  October 
that  Johnnie  went  into  the  woods  in  a  half- 
fanciful  search  for  his  destined  lone  retreat. 
Whether  under  guidance  of  his  dreaming  con- 
sciousness, or  directed  by  the  unerring  hand 
of  fate,  it  happened  that  his  steps  led  him  to 
the  very  spot  where  he  and  Mabel  had  met 
some  months  before. 

He  was  not  slow  to  recognize  his  surround- 
ings, and,  wracked  by  contending  emotions, 
he  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  to  medi- 
tate. Reclining  listlessly  upon  his  elbow,  he 
gazed  about.  Here  was  where  the  snake 
had  been ;  over  there  was  where  Mabel  had 
stood.  The  same  screen  of  hazel,  through 
which  he  had  peered,  still  enclosed  the  cher- 
ished nook.  The  same  trees  arched  above, 
the  same  grass  formed  its  carpet. 
144 


THE  RALLY 

And  yet  nothing  was  the  same  after  all. 
Already  time's  most  ruthless  token,  the  yel- 
low blight  of  autumn,  was  becoming  visible 
everywhere.  Bleak  winds  came  and  went 
mournfully  through  the  tree-tops  filling  the 
forest  with  the  clatter  of  descending  nuts  and 
the  flutter  of  falling  leaves,  and  the  grass 
was  harsh  and  withered,  retaining  scarcely 
more  of  its  former  color  than  the  flecks  of 
sodden  sky  above. 

To  Johnnie  this  universal  fading  of  things 
seemed  most  fitting,  and  his  own  breast 
heaved  with  sighs  with  every  moan  of  the  for- 
est. He  was,  indeed,  the  very  embodiment 
of  the  autumnal  spirit. 

The  morbid  melancholy  of  boyhood  is  a 
painful  thing.  The  height  of  sentimental 
spirituality,  to  which  lovelorn  youth  often- 
times ascends,  would  be  sublime,  were  it  not 
so  ridiculous. 

In  the  midst  of  his  maunderings  Johnnie 
became  aware  of  a  presence  and  starting  up  in 
confusion,  whom  should  he  behold  but  the 
fair  Mabel,  herself,  standing  with  downcast 
eyes  and  folded  hands  before  him ! 
10  145 


THE  RALLY 

"Howd'y,  John,"  she  said  demurely  step- 
ping forward. 

"Howd'y,"  gasped  Johnnie  with  pallid 
face  and  averted  eyes. 

"What  you  doing,  hunting  snakes?"  asked 
Mabel,  after  waiting  a  moment  for  him  to  say 
something. 

"No'p,"  responded  Johnnie  glumly,  edg- 
ing away.  Then  a  thought  struck  him. 
"Only  red-headed  ones,"  he  added  with 
terse  meaning. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You're  awful  innocent." 

"Honest,  I  don't  understand  you." 

"Who  was  you  lookin'  fer,  then/'  accu- 
singly. 

"Me?" 

"Yes,  you." 

"I  wasn't  looking  for  anybody  particular, " 
with  blushes. 

"Whereabouts  is  Reddy?"  and  Johnnie 
faced  her  sternly. 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care." 

"Yes,  you  don't,"  very  sarcastically. 


146 


THE  RALLY 

"That  red-headed  thing!"  with  great  dis- 
dain. 

"You  like  him,  don't  you?" — this  some- 
what softly. 

Mabel  replied  with  a  decisiveness  which 
made  Johnnie's  heart  bound,  "No,  I  don't!" 

During  the  silence  that  followed  Johnnie 
picked  up  a  stick  and  began  poking  into  the 
ground  thoughtfully. 

"I  hate  him!"  exclaimed  Mabel  vehe- 
mently. 

"So  do  I,"  responded  Johnnie,  with  feel- 
ing. 

"Say,"  began  Mabel  after  another  pause. 

"Say  what?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  a  thing  to  do  with 
him  any  more." 

"I  wouldn't  either,"  said  Johnnie  sympa- 
thetically. 

Then  Mabel  drew  shyly  nearer,  and  John- 
nie stood  his  ground,  though  his  brain  was 
reeling. 

"I — I  like  you  the  best,"  she  whispered, 
glancing  up  at  him. 

A  visible  thrill  passed  over  Johnnie  from 
147 


THE  RALLY 

head  to  foot  and  he  was  stricken  speechless. 
He  wanted  to  answer  her  fittingly,  he  wanted 
to  caress  her,  he  wanted  to  turn  a  glad  flip- 
flop  on  the  grass;  but  he  could  only  stand 
there  and  poke  the  stick  furiously  into  the 
ground. 

"This  is  the  same  place  where  we  first 
met,"  began  Mabel  again  presently.  "I 
have  thought  of  it  so  often. — You  can't  guess 
how  I  happened  to  come  here  to-day,  John." 
She  paused. 

"No'p,"  said  he. 

"I  saw  you  and  followed  you." 

Johnnie's  brain  reeled  again.  Was  this  a 
deceitful  dream? 

Was  he  sleeping  and  would  he  presently 
awake?  Was  the  wind  still  sobbing,  and 
were  the  dead  leaves  falling?  No,  surely  it 
was  summer  time  again. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  murmured  dreamily  at 
length,  speaking  the  truth  that  was  upper- 
most in  his  heart. 

Mabel  looked  up  and  laughed;  then  a 
shade  of  vexation  came  into  her  face.  "But 


148 


THE  RALLY 

why  do  you  snub  me  at  school,  John?"  she 
asked  earnestly. 

"Because — Oh,  jist  because,"  said  he  in 
confusion  again. 

"Do  you  like  me?" 

"Yes — awful,"  then,  drawing  himself  to- 
gether with  sudden  force,  "I'm  'fraid  of  the 
teacher." 

The  conversation  became  less  personal  at 
length,  but  to  Johnnie  no  less  interesting. 
Nothing  she  could  say  lacked  interest. 

Finally  the  lateness  of  the  afternoon  forced 
them  to  part. 

"Don't  you  ever  tell  about  this,"  warned 
Johnnie,  as  he  started  away,  and  again  when 
he  had  gone  a  little  distance  he  stopped,  and 
turning  round  repeated,  "Don't  you  ever 
tell!" 

And  the  joyous  little  bird-voice  echoed 
back  sweetly,  "I  won't,  John,"  and  tenderly 
"Good-bye!" 

When  Johnnie  reached  home  that  evening 

he    seemed    so    profoundly   happy   that    his 

mother  cross-examined  him  closely,  fearing 

he  had  been  into  mischief.     He  became  sus- 

149 


THE  RALLY 

piciously  embarrassed,  too,  under  her  ques- 
tions ;  but  all  she  could  get  out  of  him  was 
that  he  had  been  in  the  woods. 

The  fiercest  inquisition  of  old  could  never 
have  extorted  from  Johnnie  the  secret  of  his 
tryst  with  Mabel. 

Swiftly  and  happily  Johnnie  relinquished 
his  dreams  of  a  lodge  in  the  wilderness. 
There  was  a  new  and  notable  manliness  in  his 
bearing  and  a  proud  gleam  in  his  eye  when 
he  appeared  at  school  Monday  morning. 

The  knowledge  that  Mabel  liked  him — 
cared  for  him  (he  could  not  quite  bring  him- 
self to  use  the  word  love)  had  wrought  a  rev- 
olution in  his  every  relationship.  Although 
by  no  means  blind  to  his  blunders  and  awk- 
wardness, the  fact  that  such  a  critic  as  Mabel 
did  not  deem  him  altogether  stupid  reassured 
him,  and  self-assurance  was  what  he  most 
needed. 

At  recess  a  game  of  "weevily  wheat"  was 
begun  under  the  locusts  in  the  school-yard. 
With  his  accustomed  freshness  Reddy  saun- 
tered up  to  Mabel,  and  taking  her  familiarly 
by  the  arm,  boldly  declared  that  she  should 
150 


THE  RALLY 

be  his  partner.  But  Mabel  shook  him  off 
haughtily,  and  a  moment  later  was  tripping 
through  the  mazes  of  the  game  (which  was 
really  a  sort  of  quadrille,  although  the  chil- 
dren did  not  know  it)  as  Johnnie  Winkle's 
chosen  mate. 

Reddy  went  and  leaned  against  a  tree  and 
made  taunting  comments  upon  them.  "Ain't 
he  a  dandy?"  and  "See  the  periwinkle!" 
and  "Keep  off  her  feet,  won't  ye?"  he  cried 
spitefully.  When  the  "set"  was  concluded 
Johnnie  stepped  aside  and  beckoned  Reddy 
to  follow.  Reddy  acquiesced  with  an  easy 
air,  destined  soon  to  vanish. 

The  back  fence  was  reached,  and  Johnnie 
took  his  whilom  rival  by  the  ear.  "See  here, 
Reddy,"  he  began  impressively,  "I  got  a  no- 
tion to  wallup  the  daylights  out  o'  you." 

Reddy  squirmed  and  his  florid  face  grew 
as  pale  as  it  could.  "You're  a  doggoned 
little  pup  an'  you  got  to  let  Mabel  alone. 
D'ye  understand?"  Johnnie  went  on,  plac- 
ing a  fist  beneath  Reddy 's  nose. 

'  'Why,  I  don' t  want  to  bother  her, ' '  quaked 


151 


THE   RALLY 

Reddy.  "I  don't  keer  nothin'  about  her — ii 
she'll  let  me  be.  She  ain't  — " 

"Shut  up!"  commanded  Johnnie  sharply, 
"Don't  you  dare  say  nothin'  about  her/' 

"Why,  course  I  won't.  Say,  John,"  and 
Reddy  became  effusively  confidential,  "I 
bet  you  can't  guess  what  she  said  about  you . ' ' 
And  before  Johnnie  could  interrupt  him,  "She 
said  she  thought  you  was  the  nicest  boy  in 
this  school — honest,  she  did,  an'  I  kin  prove 
it." 

This  information  had  the  desired  effect  of 
appeasing  the  avenger's  wrath  somewhat, 
and  when  the  bell  rang  the  unpleasant  affair 
had  been  amicably  settled. 

Thenceforth,  Johnnie  and  Mabel  became 
acknowledged  and  bona  fide  school-sweet- 
hearts. Their  passion  was  largely  of  the 
passive,  pensive  sort,  evincing  itself  not  so 
much  in  language  as  in  smiles,  and  sighs, 
and  longing,  in  exaltation,  and  melancholia, 
and  anorexia. 

In  truth,  their  love  was  of  the  kind  which 
certain  old  people,  who  have  never  been 
voung,  are  wont  to  style  "puppy-love," — 
152 


THE  RALLY 

the  kind  which,  to  one  who  perceives  the 
heart  of  things,  is  the  purest,  most  divine 
and,  not  seldom,  the  most  enduring  form  of 
affection. 

To  Johnnie's  innocent  imagination  Mabel 
was  simply  a  hallowed  angel,  while  in  her 
eyes  he  assumed  the  aspect  of  a  hero,  capa- 
ble of  all  things,  noble  and  good. 

Nor  is  it  likely  that  their  estimates  of  each 
other  in  the  abstract  ever  came  nearer  the 
truth ;  for,  just  as  they  were  then,  in  all  their 
childish  innocence  and  ignorance,  their  youth- 
ful delicacy  and  maidenly  reserve,  were  they 
not  happier  and  better  and  wiser  than  most 
of  their  supercilious  elders,  or  than  they, 
themselves,  might  ever  be  again? 


'53 


XVII 

A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

THE  first  light  snow  of  the  season  had  fal- 
len, and  Johnnie  was  searching  for  the  ax 
preparatory  to  going  rabbit  hunting,  when  he 
noticed  his  father  and  Mr.  Meadows  convers- 
ing earnestly  together  in  the  orchard  lot,  back 
of  the  barn. 

Mr.  Meadows  was  a  highly  interesting  man 
to  Johnnie,  and,  although  he  always  felt 
rather  ill  at  ease  in  so  august  a  presence,  he 
decided  he  would  like  to  hear  what  was  being 
said. 

So,  strolling  carelessly  into  their  vicinity, 
he  stopped  at  a  peach  tree  and  began  to  pick 
the  withered  buds  to  pieces  with  great  pains, 
under  pretense  of  ascertaining  whether  they 
had  been  winter-killed. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  poor  time  to  move,"  Mr. 
Meadows  was  saying,  "but  you  see  it's  a 

'54 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

chance  I  can't  let  slip.  I  make  a  clean  thou- 
sand to  start  with,  an'  fair  prospects  for 
more." 

"When  do  you  'low  to  go?"  asked  Mr, 
Winkle. 

"Three  weeks  from  Tuesday,  if  nothin* 
happens." 

Then  they  walked  off  and  presently  Mr, 
Meadows  went  home. 

Johnnie  crept  away.  He  had  heard  enough 
• — more  than  enough.  All  the  time  he  had 
felt  that  something  was  going  to  happen ;  and 
this  was  it.  Mabel  was  going  away.  Going 
away  and  he  would  never  see  her  again. 

What  a  sad,  sodden,  snow-bound  world  it 
was !  He  went  and  climbed  into  the  hay- 
mow, where  he  could  nurse  his  misery  undis- 
turbed. 

"Well,  what  on  airth  air  ye  doin*  here, 
sonny,"  cried  Eph  in  amazement  when  he 
came  at  noon  to  feed  the  horses.  "We  all 
thought  ye  wuz  out  chasin'  cotton-tails." 

"No'p,"  said  Johnnie  dolefully,  "I  ain't 
feelin'  well,  Eph." 

"Well,  Lord,  why  don't  ye  goto  the  house 
155 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

then.  Ye '11  ketch  yer  death  out  here,"  and 
amid  a  tirade  of  reproof  Johnnie  slunk  out. 

At  dinner  his  lack  of  appetite  confirmed 
the  assertion  that  he  was  unwell.  But  he  re- 
mained at, the  table  throughout  the  meal  and, 
after  repeated  attempts,  finally  succeeded  in 
leading  his  father  to  discuss  the  topic  upper- 
most in  his  mind  and  deepest  in  his  heart. 

"Meadowses  're  goin'  to  move  away," 
said  Mr.  Winkle  across  the  table  to  his  wife, 
and  he  proceeded  to  explain  the  whys  and 
wherefores  of  the  case,  whilst  Johnnie  unwit- 
tingly gulped  down  great  crusts  of  bread. 

The  next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  was 
very  long  and  lonesome.  As  evening  drew 
on  Johnnie  became  uncontrollably  restless  and 
finally  stole  upstairs  and  put  on  his  best  suit 
of  clothes. 

Ere  long  he  might  have  been  seen  speed- 
ing across  lots,  like  a  shadow  in  the  dusk,  to- 
ward the  Meadows  place.  He  was  going  to 
pay  Mabel  a  call.  All  the  way  he  wondered 
at  himself  and  could  hardly  believe  it.  He 
would  almost  have  wagered  that  he  was  only 
shamming  and  would  not  actually  go  up  and 

156 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

knock  at  the  door  when  he  got  there.  But, 
even  while  turning  the  matter  over  in  his 
mind,  he  had  reached  the  gate,  had  stepped 
boldly  onto  the  porch  and  was  rapping  upon 
the  door  with  a  vicious  little  rat-terrier  snap- 
ping at  his  heels. 

Presently  a  tall,  matronly  woman,  with 
huge  spectacles,  opened  the  door  and  peered 
over  his  head  out  into  the  night.  Then  her 
glance  chanced  to  fall  upon  him.  "Why, 
bless  me,  it's  a  little  boy!"  she  exclaimed  in 
astonishment. 

"Good-night,  ma'am,"  said  Johnnie,  re- 
moving his  hat. 

The  woman  stared  at  him.  "Whose  little 
boy  are  you?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"I'm  Jawn  Winkle,"  responded  Johnnie  in 
as  deep  a  bass  as  he  could  summon. 

"Oh,— Sam  Winkle's  little  boy,  eh?  Is 
some  one  sick?"  Johnnie  replied  in  the  neg- 
ative and  was  finally  invited  in. 

Ah,  what  a  little,  little  boy  he  felt  himself 

to  be !      He  had  left  home  with   a  feeling  of 

manliness,  rejoicing  in  his  strength,  but  now, 

as  he  placed  himself  precariously  on  the  edge 

157 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

of  an  upholstered  chair,  he  realized  how  vain- 
ly he  had  vaunted. 

Wistfully  he  looked  about.  Mabel  was  no- 
where in  sight.  "My  little  boy,  Willie,  has 
gone  to  bed,"  observed  Mrs.  Meadows  apol- 
ogetically. "I'll  see  if  he  is  asleep,"  and 
she  withdrew. 

Her  little  boy,  Willie !  A  wholly  uninter- 
esting infant,  a  mere  babe  of  nine — what  did 
Johnnie  care  for  him? 

"Willie  is  fast  asleep,"  said  his  motherly 
hostess  when  she  came  back,  "but  here  are 
some  of  his  picture-books.  Perhaps  you'd 
like  to  look  at  them,"  and  she  deposited  a 
gaudy  collection  of  juvenile  literature  in  his 
lap. 

To  call  him  a  little  boy  and  then  to  bring 
him  picture-books — this  was  indeed  adding 
insult  to  injury.  But  she  was  Mabel's  moth- 
er and  Johnnie  dared  not  reveal  his  disgust. 

Patiently  he  turned  the  pages  of  the  child's 
books,  pausing  now  and  then  as  though  par- 
ticularly pleased  with  certain  passages,  to 
con  the  coarse  print  three-letter  words  that 


158 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

told  of  Hal  and  his  pet  cat,  or  Ma-ry  and  her 
pret-ty  doll. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Meadows  sat  near  by 
reading  a  newspaper  and  looking  up  occa- 
sionally to  see  how  her  small  guest  enjoyed 
himself. 

For  a  long  while  Johnnie  perused  the  books 
industriously  in  the  hope  that  somehow  Ma- 
bel would  appear  soon.  But  when  the  clock 
struck  eight  and  every  variegated  volume  had 
been  exhausted,  he  grew  despondent. 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  "I'll  have  to  be  go- 
ing," he  said  dejectedly.  As  he  reached  the 
door  he  asked  abruptly  "How  many  children 
have  you  got,  Mrs.  Meadows?" 

"Just  two — Willie  and  Mabel,"  she  an- 
swered pleasantly.  "You  haven't  any  little 
brothers  or  sisters,  have  you?" 

"No'm." 

"Poor  child!  I  suppose  you  get  dread- 
fully lonesome.  You  ought  to  come  over 
and  play  with  Willie  real  often;  but  we're  go- 
ing to  move  away  soon." 

At  this  juncture  an  inner  door  opened  and 
Mabel  appeared,  sleepy-eyed  and  yawning, 
159 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

with  a  copy  of  Ivanhoe  in  her  hand.  Why, 
John  Winkle!"  she  cried  in  surprise,  "What's 
the  matter?" 

Johnnie  tried  to  inform  her  that  nothing 
was  the  matter.  "I've  jist  been  visitin'  your 
maw,"  he  explained,  smiling  helplessly. 

He  was  already  on  the  porch.  He  had 
started  home,  and  could  not  well  turn  back 
now.  Cordial  good-nights  were  spoken  all 
around  and  he  took  his  departure.  But  he 
lingered  at  the  gate  long  enough  to  hear  Ma- 
bel asking  her  mother  in  vexation,  "Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  he  was  here?"  She  had 
been  upstairs  calmly  reading  all  evening ! 

Mabel  was  not  at  school  the  next  morning, 
nor  the  next,  nor  any  morning  thereafter. 
Her  father  came  one  day  and  got  her  books, 
saying  that,  as  they  were  going  away  in  a 
short  time,  it  was  not  considered  worth  while 
for  Mabel  to  attend  school  during  the  interval. 

With  her  books  went  the  last  little  ray  of 
sunshine.  Dismal,  indeed,  were  the  long  days 
after  that.  Johnnie  occupied  the  time  with 
various  vain  subterfuges.  He  wrote  endear- 
ing letters  to  her  which  he  carried  about  and 
1 60 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

then  finally  destroyed.  He  found  a  pencil  in 
her  deserted  desk,  overlooked  by  her  father, 
and  wore  it  near  his  heart.  He  composed 
little  odes  and  sonnets  of  which  she  was  the 
central  thought,  and  in  which  occurred  such 
rhymes  as  "fair"  and  "golden  hair,"  "eyes" 
and  "skies,"  "love,"  "dove"  and  "above," 
— rhymes  which  have  been  utilized  over  and 
over  by  languishing  lovers  since  poetry  and 
love  were  first  invented. 

He  went  to  the  woods  in  the  cheerless 
weather  and  seeking  out  their  olden  trysting- 
place,  carved  her  initials  and  his  own  on  the 
trunk  of  an  ice-bound  tree  that  faithfully 
guarded  the  hallowed  spot. 

He  loitered  sometimes  in  the  vicinity  of 
Mabel's  home,  but  he  did  not  venture  in  any 
more. 

Early  one  morning,  while  the  dawn  was 
yet  dim  upon  the  snowy  fields,  Johnnie  was 
awakened  by  the  rumble  of  heavy  wagons, 
passing  along  the  road.  Instinctively  he  ran 
to  the  window  and  peeped  out.  The  Mead- 
ows were  moving!  Four  wagons,  heaped 
with  household  goods,  upon  the  foremost  of 
ii  161 


A  SORROWFUL  DENOUEMENT 

which  rode  Mr.  Meadows,  told  the  tragic 
tale. 

With  a  sinking  heart  Johnnie  watched 
them  pass.  No  funeral  procession  had  ever 
impressed  him  as  did  this. 

Upon  the  last  wagon,  wrapped  in  comforts 
and  shawls,  sat  Mabel,  his  beloved.  She 
gave  no  sign  of  recognition — she  did  not  even 
look  in  Johnnie's  direction.  Once,  indeed, 
he  thought  she  turned  her  head  slightly,  but 
that  was  all. 

Slowly  the  shadows  enfolded  her  form — 
slowly,  as  divine  visions  ever  fade,  she  passed 
from  sight;  and  sadly,  as  all  music  dies,  the 
rumble  of  the  heavy  wagons  ceased , 


162 


XVIII 

A  BOOK  WORM 

THE  boy  is  a  mercurial  being.  Paediatrists 
tell  us  that  the  slightest  systemic  disturbance 
is  apt  to  throw  a  child  into  fever,  while  a  dis- 
order, which  would  produce  a  mere  chill  in 
an  adult,  is  sufficient  to  cause  infantile  con- 
vulsions. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  child  is  remarkably 
responsive  to  remedial  measures,  and  the  cause 
being  removed,  reacts  from  the  gravest  illness 
promptly  and  completely.  Anatomically  the 
boy's  bones  and  sinews  possess  more  fibrous 
tissue  and  less  calcium  than  the  man's.  And 
his  temperament,  like  his  bones,  is  much 
more  supple  and  elastic. 

The  troubles  of  childhood,  although  in- 
tense, are  fleet,  as  is  childhood  itself.  A 
disappointment  that  would  crush  hope  out  of 
163 


A  BOOK    WORM 

a  man's  life  forever,  oppresses  the  boy  for 
about  a  month. 

Johnnie  was  profoundly  overcome  by  Ma- 
bel's departure  for  the  space  of  several  weeks. 
During  this  unhappy  period  he  sought  con- 
solation in  various  futile  ways.  On  Saturday 
mornings,  after  chores,  he  would  shoulder 
the  musket — for  he  had  become  old  enough 
to  bear  arms  now — and  go  hunting ;  but  his 
path  always  led  to  one  certain  sylvan  retreat, 
and  he  came  home  downcast  and  empty- 
handed. 

Then  he  would  chop  stove-wood  diligently 
all  the  afternoon,  striving  to  drown  grief  in 
the  dissipation  of  work,  but  in  vain. 

At  school  he  would  play  wildly  one  day, 
quarrel  and  fight  the  next  and  mope  moodily 
apart  on  the  day  after. 

But  one  great  solace  gradually  came  to 
chasten  his  sorrow.  As  often  happens  it  was 
the  very  alternative  which  at  first  seemed  to 
promise  the  least.  In  aimlessness  he  began 
to  investigate  the  dust-embalmed  books  in 
his  father's  meager  library. 

It  was  a  heterogeneous  collection,  com- 
164 


A  BOOK   WORM 

prising  the  History  of  the  Reformation, 
Flavius  Josephus,  The  Family  Doctor  and 
Saints'  Rest,  among  its  heavier  works.  In 
somewhat  lighter  vein  were  Oliver  Twist,  two 
autograph  albums,  Waverley,  the  Language 
of  Flowers,  Agricultural  Reports  and  an  Atlas 
of  the  World.  Furthermore,  in  a  corner  to 
themselves  Johnnie  found  his  own  forgotten 
prize-copy  of  Paradise  Lost  and  a  much 
traveled  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

In  any  other  mood  Johnnie  would  have 
scorned  these  musty,  old-fogyish  volumes  as 
mere  empty  rubbish,  belonging  altogether 
beyond  the  pale  of  his  existence.  But  their 
very  forlornness  appealed  to  him  now,  and 
the  ancient  "odor  of  sanctity,"  which  they 
literally  exhaled,  seemed  to  sooth  and  tran- 
quillize his  soul. 

They  were,  indeed,  spiritualized  books 
from  which  all  carnal  attributes  had  faded 
generations  before ;  and  Johnnie  felt  himself 
strangely  akin  to  them. 

This  impression  arose  solely  from  their 
outward  appearance.  As  to  their  contents, 
he  had  read  twenty  pages  of  the '  'Reformation' ' 
165 


A  BOOK   WORM 

before  he  was  even  vaguely  conscious  of  their 
import ;  and  he  continued  to  read  more  for  the 
sake  of  turning  the  yellow  leaves  and  smell- 
ing their  inspiring  odor  there  in  the  restful 
quiet  of  the  parlor  than  for  any  interest  the 
history  bore. 

In  like  manner  he  loitered  through  Flavius 
Josephus  and  the  Family  Doctor.  But  when 
he  had  perused  the  first  chapter  of  Oliver 
Twist  his  lethargy  vanished.  Like  an  Egypt- 
ologist who,  delving  day  after  day  amid  the 
very  attenuation  of  mummified  death,  comes 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  some  quaintly 
familiar  phase  of  life,  Johnnie  discovered  the 
grotesquely  vivid  characters  of  Dickens.  He 
read  the  book  through  twice  before  he  could 
put  it  aside. 

Thereafter  Johnnie  became  a  discriminating 
reader.  He  lingered  somewhat  over  the 
many-tinted  but  time-stained  leaves  of  the 
autograph  albums,  dainty  for-get-me-nots  of 
his  parents'  youths,  with  their  mellow  verses 
in  almost  invisible  chirography  praying  re- 
membrance and  signed  by  hands  long  folded 
across  throbless  breasts, — he  lingered  over 
1 66 


A  BOOK   WORM 

these,  with  wonder  at  the  strain  of  pathos 
which  they  betokened,  so  like  that  of  his  own 
life,  and  which  he  had  not  believed  existed 
in  the  "good  old  times."  But  much  more 
burning  was  his  interest  in  Scott's  glowing 
romance,  so  replete  with  stirring  life  and  love 
and  all  the  bright  ideals,  toward  which  a 
boy's  heart  yearns. 

To  Johnnie,  Waverley  was  intensely  realis- 
tic, for  he  had  not  yet  descended  in  spirit  to 
the  low  level  of  ordinary  existence,  where  the 
expected  happens  and  the  rain  falls  monoto- 
nously on  the  just  and  the  unjust. 

Waverley  was  grand,  and  ere  he  had  fin- 
ished it  his  entire  mental  attitude  and  the  at- 
mosphere about  him  had  changed  again. 
Depression  had  been  displaced  by  a  lofty 
buoyant  longing  for  great  adventure.  His 
imaginary  world  had  become  a  vast  battle 
ground  of  mighty  heroes  with  countless  lovely 
maidens  looking  on  and  crowning  the  victors 
with  laurel  wreaths  of  love . 

His  heart  swelled  to  be  up  and  doing ;  and 
his  dreams  grew  more  extravagant  than  they 
had  ever  been  before. 


A  BOOK    WORM 

Nor  were  his  aspirations  satisfied  with 
make-believes  as  they  had  been  in  the  past. 
He  tried  to  pretend  that  old  Fan  was  a  pranc- 
ing palfrey,  as  she  ambled  across  the  pasture 
with  him,  that  his  clothes  were  glittering 
armor  and  his  hat  a  helmet ;  but  fancy  was 
not  equal  to  it.  He  charged  upon  the  cows 
as  adversaries  with  a  mullein-stalk  lance ;  but 
they  only  eyed  him  reproachfully  and  switched 
their  tails. 

Discouraged  by  the  perverseness  of  things, 
Johnnie  returned  to  the  library  again.  Saints' 
Rest  aroused  little  enthusiasm,  and  he  was 
somewhat  wary  of  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

But  when  he  stripped  the  latter  of  its  alle- 
gorical tendencies  and  learned  to  omit  the 
dissertations  between  Christian  and  his  garru- 
lous companions,  he  found  it  very  good  read- 
ing. 

The  Slough  of  Despond  was  to  him  a  miry 
marsh,  like  that  in  his  father's  meadow; 
Doubting  Castle  was  a  huge,  jail-like  edifice; 
and  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  was  a 
deep,  gloomy  gorge.  Great  Heart  was  a 
real,  flesh-and-blood  man,  whose  lineaments 
1 68 


A  BOOK    WORM 

fancy  graphically  traced,  and  the  giant,  De- 
spair, was  a  counterpart  of  Goliath.  The  fiery 
battle  with  Apollyon  was  a  vivid  and  war-like 
engagement,  surpassing  any  Scott  had  de- 
picted. 

Johnnie  was  at  just  the  right  age  to  get  the 
meat  out  of  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

But,  at  length,  the  family  library  grew  ex- 
hausted. Every  volume  had  been  reviewed, 
even  to  the  atlas.  With  an  unquenchable 
thirst  for  more  fiction,  Johnnie  consulted 
Cousin  Henry.  Cousin  Henry,  he  knew, 
was  an  inveterate  reader  of  stories. 

"Yes,"  said  Henry  kindly,  "I'll  lend  you 
something  to  read,"  and  going  to  the  barn 
he  brought  forth  a  bundle  of  thumb-marked 
papers  from  a  secret  niche. 

"But  don't  you  show  them  to  your  folks," 
Henry  admonished,  as  he  handed  them  over. 
"Keep  them  hid  somewhere." 

With  a  somewhat  guilty  feeling  Johnnie 
bore  the  papers  home  and,  stealing  into  his 
father's  barn,  stored  them  away  in  the  loft. 
Here,  he  thought,  was  food  that  would  be 
filling  at  any  rate. 

169 


A  BOOK    WORM 

Sunday  afternoon  he  began  their  secret 
perusal.  They  were  story  papers  with  a 
vengeance.  "The  Human  Sleuth!"  was  the 
scare-head  title  of  the  first  tale  Johnnie's  eyes 
fell  upon ;  and  he  was  soon  following  the  fa- 
mous detective  with  bated  breath  through  ad- 
ventures before  which  those  of  Christian  paled. 

It  was  the  kind  of  literature  which  at  some 
time  falls  into  the  hands  of  every  youth,  and 
turns  the  heads  of  so  many ;  the  bloody,  mi- 
crobe-infested kind,  produced  by  anaemic, 
narrow-chested  individuals,  coughing  them- 
selves to  death  in  city  garrets. 

For  several  weeks  Johnnie  breathed  this 
infected  air,  cuddled  up  in  the  hay-mow,  in 
close  seclusion. 

But  one  day  Eph  ascended  to  his  retreat 
unawares  and,  with  his  usual  sensible  instinct, 
took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"Hold  on  there,  sonny,"  he  said,  going  di- 
rectly to  the  point.  "Ye'd  better  be  out 
play  in'  cyards,  er  stealin'  hogs,  er  plottin'  to 
kill  yore  gran' mammy  than  readin'  that  there 
truck;  it'll  land  ye  in  jail,  shore.  I've  been 


170 


A  BOOK   WORM 

there — I  mean  I've  been  where  you  air;  an' 
I  come  purty  clost  to  the  jail,  too." 

With  admonitions  and  precepts  too  tedious 
to  relate,  Eph  plied  Johnnie  for  an  hour. 

Next  day  the  story  papers  were  returned  to 
their  owner.  Eph  congratulated  himself  on 
the  good  deed  he  had  done,  in  thus  persuad- 
ing Johnnie  to  abandon  the  pernicious  stuff ; 
but  in  truth,  the  fierce  Human  Sleuth  was  al- 
ready growing  repugnant.  The  boy  who  has 
tasted  Dickens  and  Scott — not  to  mention  the 
History  of  the  Reformation — is  apt  soon  to 
tire  of  so  insipid  a  mental  diet. 


171 


XIX 

THE   BOY   INVENTOR 

DURING  that  intensely  adolescent  stage,  be- 
tween twelve  and  fifteen,  the  boy  is  a  many- 
sided  individual.  In  pursuing  the  tangled 
thread  of  sentiment  through  this  mazy  period 
it  must  not  be  assumed  that  Johnnie  was 
given  altogether  to  idle  dreams  of  love.  It 
would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  touch  upon  all 
the  phases  he  exhibited.  Their  number  was 
legion,  their  manifestations  countless. 

One  of  his  most  persistent  characteristics 
was  a  faculty  for  inventing.  This  amounted 
almost  to  genius ;  indeed  his  parents  were  in- 
clined to  consider  it  positively  phenomenal. 

At  the  tender  age  of  nine  he  tore  a  clock 
to  pieces  and  put  it  together  again  so  that  it 
would  run  with  amazing  speed.  His  moth- 
er's sewing  machine  was  thoroughly  over- 
hauled by  him  when  he  was  ten,  and  at  the 
1/2 


THE  BOY  INVENTOR 

age  of  twelve  he  attempted  to  make  a  steam 
thresher  out  of  an  old  washing  machine.  All 
one  summer  he  labored  at  odd  times  trying 
to  transform  a  tin  can  into  a  locomotive. 

He  whittled  a  whirligig  out  of  a  shingle, 
whose  mechanism  made  a  wooden  bird  bob 
up  and  down,  and  the  toy  wagons,  sets  of 
dog  harness,  chicken  coops  and  martin  boxes 
he  constructed  were  innumerable. 

Some  of  Johnnie's  devices  were  carefully 
planned  in  advance,  but  often  he  depended 
wholly  on  inspiration,  simply  taking  saw  and 
hammer  and  going  to  work,  letting  the  plans 
develop  as  he  proceeded.  Frequently  he  had 
no  idea  what  his  invention  would  prove  to  be 
until  it  was  finished. 

Once  he  arranged  a  sort  of  tread-mill  in 
the  bottom  of  a  box,  and  discovered  after- 
wards, by  accident,  that  it  was  excellent  for 
"breaking  up  setting  hens,"  keeping  them  in 
such  constant  motion  that  they  soon  lost  all 
tendency  to  "set." 

But  his  talents  were  evinced  more  plainly 
in  the  conception  of  novel  contrivances  than 
in  their  execution.  In  inventive  matters  John- 
173 


THE  BOY  INVENTOR 

nie  hitched  his  wagon  boldly  to  a  star.  No 
sort  of  mechanical  marvel  seemed  to  lie  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  his  imagination.  Flying 
machines,  horseless  carriages,  perpetual  mo- 
tion— all  were  within  the  grasp  of  his  mind. 

There  are  lazy,  easy-going  people  of  ability 
who  can  accomplish  things  of  which  they 
never  dream,  and  there  are  energetic  people 
who  dream  of  things  they  can  never  accom- 
plish. Both  classes  are  apt  to  be  looked  upon 
as  geniuses  in  their  way,  but  it  is  only  the 
latter  that  deserves  the  name.  Genius  con- 
ceives great  things ;  it  is  only  plodding  Pa- 
tience who  carries  them  out. 

Johnnie  was  not  content  with  the  mere 
planning  of  details.  When  he  had  conceived 
the  general  idea  of  an  airship,  his  fancy  im- 
mediately mounted  it  and  soared  away  on  its 
tireless  wings.  Lying  on  his  back  out  in  the 
orchard  he  would  look  into  the  sky  until  he 
could  almost  see  himself,  a  tiny  speck,  drift- 
ing gently  hither  and  thither  among  the 
clouds. 

Yet  he  did  not  overlook  the  importance  of 
less  pretentious  contrivances,  and  many  were 
174 


THE  BOY  INVENTOR 

the  homely  little  conveniences  he  planned. 
An  automatic  ax  for  chopping  stove  wood, 
to  be  operated  by  turning  a  crank,  was  one  of 
them.  This  was  to  be  connected  with  a  pat- 
ent wood-carrier  in  the  form  of  an  endless 
belt,  leading  from  the  wood-yard  into  the 
kitchen. 

Another  was  a  mechanical  milker.  It  was 
to  be  constructed  after  the  manner  of  a  force 
pump,  with  a  rubber  hose  extending  from 
stable  to  cellar.  All  that  would  be  necessary 
in  order  to  perform  the  irksome  operation  of 
milking  would  be  to  attach  one  end  of  the 
tube  to  the  cow  and  work  the  pump-handle. 
This  idea  was  improved  upon  from  time  to 
time  until  it  became  a  wonder  of  ingenuity. 
The  cows  might  be  trained  so  that  they  would 
take  their  places  at  the  proper  time,  and  a 
spring  might  be  arranged  to  clasp  the  tube  to 
the  udders  automatically.  The  power  for 
operating  the  pump  might  readily  be  supplied 
by  a  windmill. 

Moreover,  Johnnie  devised  a  horse-feeder 
and  self-acting  groom,  which  was  to  be  a 
great  labor-saver.  To  do  this  part  of  the 
175 


THE  BOY  INVENTOR 

chores  one  would  have  only  to  pull  a  string 
when  the  right  quantity  of  hay  and  oats  would 
fall  into  the  manger  with  a  click,  while  huge 
curry-combs,  protruding  from  each  side  of  the 
stall  and  impelled  by  clockwork,  would  begin 
to  smooth  the  horse's  main  and  tail  with 
lightning  strokes. 

Closely  akin  to  Johnnie's  inventive  talent 
was  an  inborn  fondness  for  experiments. 
These,  like  his  mechanical  constructions,  were 
often  carried  on  in  utter  aimlessness.  He 
seemed  to  have  a  passion  for  dissevering  and 
assembling  things. 

In  infancy  this  tendency  was  rudimentally 
apparent  in  the  destruction  of  rag  dolls  and 
the  putting  together  of  dust  and  water  in  the 
form  of  mud  pies.  As  he  grew  older  it  as- 
sumed more  definite  and  even  dangerous 
forms. 

One  phenomenon  which  he  never  tired  of 
investigating  was  the  explosive  nature  of  gun- 
powder, and  he  had  several  narrow  escapes 
while  studying  this.  Earth,  air,  fire  and 
water  were  all  subjects  of  great  interest,  and 


176 


.  WITH  HIS 
BREATH 
KNOCKED  OUT 
P.  177 


THE  BOY  INVENTOR 

his  experiments  with  them  varied  in  danger, 
according  to  their  possibilities. 

By  repeated  trials  he  found  just  the  degree 
of  thinness  at  which  ice  would  break  beneath 
his  weight  and  let  him  into  the  creek.  He 
demonstrated  by  actual  experiment  how  near 
to  the  edge  of  the  bank  he  could  walk  with- 
out falling,  and  discovered  the  exact  point  at 
which  he  fell.  He  tested  the  comparative 
strength  and  resistance  of  various  branches  of 
an  apple  tree  in  relation  to  his  weight,  and 
learned  which  ones  broke  with  him. 

He  found  from  how  great  a  height  he  could 
jump  without  hurting  himself,  how  high  he 
could  climb  in  a  sapling  before  he  lost  his 
balance,  and  just  how  a  boy  felt  with  his 
breath  knocked  out. 

Johnnie  acquired  a  great  deal  of  experience 
incidental  to  his  investigation  of  things.  For 
instance,  while  studying  the  labyrinthine  struc- 
ture of  a  hornet's  nest  he  conceived  the  bitter 
pang  of  the  insect's  sting,  and  while  observ- 
ing the  curious  claws  of  a  craw-fish  he  felt 
their  sharpness. 

Such  incidents  are  a  part  of  every  boy's 

12  1/7 


THE  BOY  INVENTOR 

natural  education,  and  the  city-bred  youth 
who  misses  them  misses  some  of  the  great 
underlying  principles  of  life. 

The  habits  of  making  things  and  trying 
things  are  much  more  than  a  mere  waste  of 
time  or  a  preventive  of  mischief.  The  boy 
who  drives  a  nail  into  a  board  learns  to  hit 
it  upon  the  head.  He  becomes  agile  by 
climbing  trees  and  cautious  by  falling  from 
them. 

Some  boy's  grandmother  once  said,  "A 
burnt  child  dreads  the  fire,"  and  never  has 
anything  relating  to  childhood  been  more 
sagely  spoken. 

From  numberless  native  sources  Johnnie 
drew  that  wisdom,  positive  and  negative, 
which  goes  to  make  up  the  sum  total  of 
"common  sense,"  and  the  things  he  learned 
not  to  do  were  as  useful  and  necessary  as  the 
things  he  learned  to  do. 


XX 

WHEN   HIS   MOTHER   DIED 

THE  darkest  shadow  that  ever  lies  across 
the  path  of  boyhood  is  threatening  Johnnie. 
That  almost  inconceivable,  yet  inexorable 
calamity  which  he  has  dreaded  ever  since 
earth's  dearest  idols  ceased  to  be  immortal,  is 
drawing  near.  From  his  earliest  remem- 
brance there  have  come  to  him  occasional 
shadowy,  pensive  moments,  strange,  reflex 
tides  of  emotion,  when  he  would  pause  in  his 
play  and  sigh  in  half  conscious  recognition  of 
a  presentiment  of  this  ordeal. 

Even  to  the  verge  of  tears  he  has  some- 
times grieved  in  its  anticipation;  but  he 
knows  now  that  he  has  never  truly  realized  it, 
that  his  fancy  has  never  been  able  for  an 
instant  to  grasp  its  overwhelming  import. 

His  mother  is  going  to  die.  For  weeks  he 
has  been  hoping  and  praying,  fearing  and 
179 


WHEN  HIS  MOTHER  DIED 

weeping;  but  there  is  no  longer  any  hope 
left,  no  longer  any  efficacy  in  prayer — noth- 
ing but  tears  remaining  to  him.  It  is  a  plain, 
pitiless  fact,  a  condition  as  inevitable,  as  un- 
controllable, as  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

His  own  mother- — that  mother  who  has  al- 
ways been  a  part  of  his  life,  who  gave  him 
life  and  with  whom  every  circumstance  of 
life,  as  he  traces  it  backward  and  outward,  is 
inseparably  joined,  she  is  going  to  be  swept 
out  of  existence.  He  wonders  what  the 
world  will  be  like  after — after — but  he  can 
not  conceive.  It  is  all  black  and  incompre- 
hensible. 

Day  after  day  she  lies  patiently  in  the  little 
bedroom,  the  shadow-  and  memory-filled 
bedroom,  which  has  always  been  such  a  de- 
lightful place,  which,  henceforth,  will  be  such 
a  holy  place — wracked  with  pain,  worn  with 
weariness,  but  never  complaining. 

Oh,  she  is  a  saint  already,  he  thinks,  as  he 
tiptoes  out  of  the  room;  there  is  so  little 
corruptible  to  become  incorruptible  there, 
surely  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  which  she  is  so 


1 80 


WHEN  HIS  MOTHER  DIED 

soon  to  enter,  will  make  little  change  in  her. 
Is  she  not — has  she  not  ever  been  sanctified? 

He  steals  away  to  his  one  boyish  place  of 
refuge,  the  barn,  to  meditate.  Vainly  he 
tries  to  picture  to  himself  the  glories  of  that 
strange,  far-off  country  beyond  the  skies  to 
which  she  is  going.  Those  pearly  gates  and 
streets  of  gold,  in  which  he  believes  so  liter- 
ally,— will  his  mother  care  so  very  much  for 
them,  he  wonders. 

She  has  never  seemed  fond  of  lavish  dis- 
play here.  Only  one  plain  gold  ring  and  a 
cameo  brooch — but  she  could  not  afford  much 
jewelry.  And  she  will  be  rich  and  always 
happy  there,  perfectly  happy  forever. 

But  a  perplexing  thought  arises.  She  loves 
him — once,  when  she  went  away  for  a  fort- 
nights visit,  she  cried;  and  she  cried  again 
when  she  came  home,  as  she  told  him  how 
lonely  and  homesick  she  had  been.  She 
loves  him,  loves  his  father,  loves  home;  how, 
then,  can  she  be  perfectly  happy  up  there,  so 
far  away?  Only  by  forgetting,  he  reasons, 
and  surely,  surely  she  can  never  quite  do  that. 

Some  one  is  calling  him.  Oh,  perhaps  she 
181 


WHEN  HIS  MOTHER  DIED 

is  dying  now,  and  he  rushes  wildly  to  the 
house.  But  it  is  only  the  minister,  not  the 
angel  of  death,  who  has  come ;  and  he  is  go- 
ing to  pray  with  them. 

Johnnie  goes  in  with  downcast  eyes.  There 
is  a  funereal  air  everywhere.  Each  face  is 
averted  and  tearful,  except  the  minister's  and 
hers.  The  preacher's  pious  countenance  is 
tranquil  and  there  is  a  radiant,  restful  glory 
in  the  mother's  waxen  features,  such  as  he 
has  never  seen  before,  and  she  smiles  like  a 
glad  bride. 

She  beckons  Johnnie  to  her  and,  as  the 
minister  kneels  beside  them,  her  feeble  arms 
clasp  him  close  against  her  bosom.  Many  a 
time  in  his  tempestuous  little  life  he  has  cried ; 
but  he  has  never  wept  such  a  convulsive, 
heart-broken  flood  of  anguish  before,  and 
never  will  again.  Every  pathetic  word  of  the 
prayer  sinks  straight  into  his  soul  and  makes 
him  shudder  with  grief,  with  dread,  with  re- 
belliousness. 

But  she  is  calm  and  the  gentle  stroke  of  her 
hand  upon  his  hair  soothes  him  at  length  and 
imparts  a  touch  of  that  sublime  peace  of  hers, 
182 


WHEN  HIS  MOTHER  DIED 

'  'which  passeth  understanding' ' ;  and  he  goes 
out  more  nearly  reconciled  than  ever  before. 

Death  always  comes  suddenly,  no  matter 
how  long  expected,  or  how  breathlessly 
awaited.  Johnnie's  mother  passed  away,  at 
last,  with  a  swiftness  that  was  paralyzing. 
But  Providence  has  set  a  limitation  to  human 
sorrow,  and  Johnnie  had  reached  this  in  an- 
ticipation ;  and  now  everything  took  place, 
as  in  a  familiar,  oft-repeated  dream. 

Like  an  unreal  rehearsal  the  funeral  cere- 
mony proceeded.  He  knew  just  how  the 
minister  would  look  and  what  he  would  say ; 
how,  at  the  close,  strangers  would  gather 
about  the  bier  and  the  merest  friends  would 
wipe  their  eyes  and  moan ;  he  knew  how  the 
white-gloved,  black-frocked  pall-bearers  would 
creep  softly  in  to  carry  the  varnished  casket 
away;  how  the  sleek  hearse  horses  would 
prance  and  shake  their  heads ;  and  how  the 
carriages  would  creak,  creak  on  their  slow 
march  to  the  cemetery.  But  the  desolate 
home-coming — he  had  not  imagined  that. 

When  they  arrived  home  Johnnie  slipped 
away  to  the  woods.  Well-meaning  neigh- 

183 


WHEN  HIS  MOTHER  DIED 

bors  had  tried  to  brighten  things  about  the 
house,  as  if  in  the  hope  of  making  him  forget 
his  loss,  and  this  grated  on  him. 

But  nature  was  in  the  same  mood  as  he. 
A  drizzling,  all-pervading  rain  was  falling — 
dripping  from  leaf  to  leaf  through  the  autumn 
foliage  in  sad  monotones.  There  was  no  liv- 
ing thing  in  sight,  no  sound  of  life  to  be  heard. 

Despair  seemed  traced  on  every  lineament 
of  the  forest,  and  desolation  hovered  in  the  air. 
He  had  never  seen  such  weather  before,  and 
he  wondered  if  the  sun  would  ever  have  the 
heart  to  shine  again. 

At  night,  after  the  rest  of  the  household 
slept,  he  crept  out  again.  A  harsh  wind  had 
risen,  before  which  the  clouds  had  vanished, 
leaving  the  sky  infinite  and  clear.  Unmind- 
ful of  the  chill  blast,  he  sat  down  on  the  door- 
step and,  resting  his  chin  between  his  hands, 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  heavens. 

Under  such  conditions,  the  stars  shed  an 
indescribably  desolate  influence  earthward. 
The  very  spirit  of  their  stillness  and  solitude 
seems  to  descend,  until  the  whole  shadowy 


184 


KB  SAT  DOWN 
OK  THE 
DOOR  STEP 
p.   184 


WHEN  HIS  MOTHER  DIED 

universe  is  filled  with  a  loneliness,  incompara- 
bly vast  and  oppressive. 

How  coldly,  how  pitilessly,  those  stellar 
eyes  stared  down  at  the  poor  waif  of  a  boy, 
through  the  immeasurable,  bleak,  barren 
spaces  of  the  night.  They  were  all  millions 
of  miles  away;  and  yet,  he  reflected,  his 
mother  must  now  be  still  beyond  them.  And 
only  last  night  she  was  here,  at  home.  What 
a  terrible,  inconceivable  separation. 

And  yet,  as  he  brooded,  he  felt  that  this 
could  not  be.  God  was  in  heaven,  yet  He 
was  everywhere.  Perhaps,  she  was  also;  and, 
as  he  continued  to  meditate,  a  sense  of  her 
immediate  presence  came  over  him — a  sense 
which  abided  in  his  heart  to  cheer  and,  some- 
times, to  chide  him  through  many  years. 

Whatever  he  should  do  now — whatever  he 
had  done,  even  the  little  things  of  which  he 
had  been  ashamed  to  tell  her,  she  would 
know.  Her  invisible  shade  would  follow 
him  through  life,  rejoicing  in  his  achieve- 
ments, sorrowing  in  his  failures,  watching 
over  him  faithfully  all  the  while. 

Perhaps,  this  childish  conceit  of  Johnnie's 
185 


WHEN  HIS  MOTHER  DIED 

was  not  orthodox.  Perhaps,  it  was  unscript- 
ural  and  inconsistent ;  yet  it  was  a  blessing  to 
the  motherless  boy  and,  perhaps,  after  all, 

"  Human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Find  their  root  in  human  needs." 


186 


XXI 

THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

THE  smoky  arms  of  the  distant  city  had 
never  ceased  to  beckon  to  Johnnie.  Some- 
times for  months  together  he  had  forgotten 
it,  and  sometimes,  knowing  he  could  not 
obey  its  summons,  he  had  refused  to  look  in 
its  direction;  but,  whenever  he  turned  his 
eyes  toward  the  eastern  horizon,  the  vapory 
signal  was  always  there. 

Neither  had  his  olden  resolve  to  go  to  the 
city  some  day  and  become  a  part  of  its  life 
ever  died  entirely  away;  and  now,  with  the 
loosening  of  home  ties,  with  the  chastening 
of  his  thoughts  by  sorrow  and  the  slower, 
steadier  beating  of  his  heart,  this  intention 
became  firmer  and  more  active. 

It  was  not  altogether  that  mystic  centripe- 
tal attraction,  which  every  city  exerts  upon 
every  boy  that  drew  him,  nor  was  he  influ- 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

enced  merely  by  a  weariness  of  rural  quiet 
and  a  roving  desire  for  change.  These  were 
considerations  to  be  true,  but  beyond  them 
was  a  growing  conviction  that  the  city  offered 
better  advantages,  greater  returns  for  labor, 
than  the  country. 

Well-fed  students  of  economics  are  in  the 
habit  of  decrying  the  townward  tendency  of 
country  boys.  Urban  editors  of  agricultural 
journals  are  constantly  advising  them  to  stay 
on  the  farm,  pointing  to  the  illustrious  men 
of  our  history  who  started  as  farmers.  But 
Johnnie  and  his  father  and  Eph,  discussing 
the  matter  in  their  simplicity  around  the 
homely  hearth,  arrived  at  an  adverse  decis- 
ion. And  their  observations  evinced  a  cer- 
tain quaint  logic. 

They  looked  at  the. subject  with  the  nar- 
row view  of  the  individual  struggling  for  sel- 
fish ends.  In  many  generations  of  the  Winkle 
family  the  "farmer's  boasted  independence" 
had  been  taught  by  father  to  son,  until  it 
had  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  sacred  tenet, 
to  question  which  were  profane. 

Yet,  as  the  matter  of  Johnnie's  future 
188 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

career  was  discussed  night  after  night,  one 
or  another  of  them  brought  forward  facts 
which  seemed  to  weaken  the  time-honored 
phrase's  force. 

The  fertility  of  the  old  farm  was  slowly  be- 
ing carried  to  the  city  year  by  year,  while  a 
lugubrious  mortgage,  like  a  vulture  hovered 
above  it  on  tireless  wings.  At  some  distant 
day  the  farm  would  be  worn  to  a  mere  skele- 
ton, and  the  hungry  bird  would  descend  and 
pick  its  bones. 

The  farmer,  while  never  out  of  work,  went 
oftentimes  unpaid.  He  was  dependent  first, 
upon  the  weather  for  a  crop ;  upon  the  uncer- 
tain law  of  supply  and  demand,  together 
with  "them  tricky  board  o'  trade  fellers"  for 
his  price;  and  upon  the  Lord  for  health  and 
strength. 

The  city  fellow — as  far  as  they  could  see — 
set  the  price  at  which  farm  produce  was  sold, 
and  the  price  at  which  groceries  and  clothing 
were  bought.  And,  after  all,  it  was  brought 
out  that  few  of  the  farmer  boys  who  had  be- 
come presidents  had  attained  greatness  in 
their  rustic  guise.  Most  of  them  had  aban- 
189 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

doned  agriculture  long  before  fame  found 
them. 

With  these  and  similar  arguments,  puerile 
and  fallacious  no  doubt,  but  weighty  in  their 
minds,  the  Winkles,  in  convention  assembled, 
proceeded,  and  the  conclusion  of  it  all  was 
that  Johnnie  should  go  to  the  city. 

Perhaps,  if  the  other  side  of  the  subject 
could  have  been  comprehended  by  them,  if 
they  could  have  realized  the  narrowness  of 
the  city's  streets  and  the  murkiness  of  its 
atmosphere,  contrasting  these  with  the  free- 
dom and  purity  of  their  pastoral  environment, 
they  might  have  decided  otherwise ;  but  they 
were  as  ignorant  of  the  disadvantages  of  the 
metropolis  as  are  its  philosophers  of  the  coun- 
try's faults. 

The  final  decision  of  the  matter  was  of  great 
moment  to  Johnnie,  and  his  coming  journey 
out  into  the  world  monopolized  his  every 
dream.  Once  more  his  relationship  toward 
all  familiar  external  things  seemed  completely 
changed.  In  his  exaltation  and  self-impor- 
tance, the  giants  of  other  days  dwindled  and 


190 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

many  domestic  idols  seemed  to  crumble  into 
dust. 

Native  fields  and  woodlands  took  on  a 
plainer  aspect.  The  graceful  undulations  of 
the  landscape  grew  angular  and  flat,  the  old 
house  appeared  weather-beaten  and  squatty, 
and  even  Eph — faithful  Eph,  the  infallible 
oracle  of  his  childhood,  became  a  hired-hand 
who  used  very  bad  language  and  wore 
shabby  clothes. 

Yet,  as  the  day  of  his  departure  drew  near, 
Johnnie  began  to  realize  that  it  was  only  his 
mind  that  had  exalted  itself  above  these 
homely  associations,  and  that  his  heart  was 
secretly  clinging  the  closer  now  to  its  olden 
friends.  After  all  he  had  taken  root  in  this 
lowly  soil  and  the  most  cherished  ambition 
to  be  transplanted  could  not  overcome  regret 
at  leaving. 

During  the  last  days  of  his  stay  at  home, 
Johnnie  struggled  with  conflicting  emotions. 
He  went  among  the  horses  and  cows,  calling 
them  fondly  by  name  and  feeding  them  extra 
nubbins  of  corn.  He  slipped  over  the  hill  to 
where  the  brook,  his  cheerful  little  playmate, 
191 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

who  got  no  older,  nor  more  sedate  with  years, 
was  idling  its  time  away,  and,  sitting  beside 
it,  tossed  chips  to  it  and  wondered  if  it  would 
still  run  on  the  same  when  he  was  gone.  It 
seemed  impossible  to  imagine  it  down  there 
in  the  quiet  glen  alone,  singing  those  lulla- 
bies of  old,  and  threading  its  way  in  and  out 
among  the  calamus  stalks,  and  himself  so  far 
away. 

Into  the  temple  of  the  woods  he  took  his 
way,  and,  in  the  calm  of  sylvan  solitude, 
prayerfully  recounted  the  joys  and  hopes,  the 
regrets  and  fears  of  his  little  life,  as  a  monk 
numbers  his  beads. 

When  youth  is  constrained  to  look  back- 
ward, the  vanishing  point  of  its  perspective 
appears  as  distant  as  that  of  age.  Its  years 
are  fewer,  but  they  seem  very  long. 

At  last  the  eventful  morning  came.  John- 
nie rose  early  and  went  out  to  help  with  the 
chores,  just  as  he  had  done  when  only  an  or- 
dinary farmer  boy.  He  had  resolved  to 
adopt  no  lofty  airs  toward  Eph  and  the  stock 
on  this  last  morning,  even  if  he  was  almost  a 
city  gentleman.  He  would  pass  among  them 
192 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

carelessly,  familiarly,  as  of  yore,  with  no  al- 
lusion in  word  or  manner  to  his  approaching 
promotion. 

He  had  decided  to  do  this  partly  out  of 
regard  for  their  sensitive  feelings,  more,  per- 
haps, out  of  regard  for  his  own. 

But  Eph  had  forestalled  him,  and  the  milk 
was  already  cooling  on  the  shelves  in  the 
pantry. 

"I  'lowed  I'd  jist  as  well  git  my  hand  in," 
Eph  explained  dryly  when  questioned. 

Somewhat  resentful  of  this  bald  and  unsen- 
timental bluntness,  Johnnie  betook  himself  to 
the  hay-mow  to  indulge  in  one  more  hour  of 
solemn  meditation .  Uppermost  in  his  thoughts 
now  was  a  strain  of  pity — largely  uncalled  for 
and  wasted — for  his  father  and  Eph  and  all 
the  friends  and  relatives  he  was  leaving  be- 
hind. How  terribly  they  would  miss  him — 
how  yearningly  they  would  think  of  him  and 
how  eagerly  they  would  await  his  distant  re- 
turn. 

It  would  be  a  weary  time  to  them — though 
short  and  satisfactory  to  himself — before  he 
came  home  again.  Five  years !  He  would 
13  193 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

not  think  of  returning  to  visit  them  under  that 
time,  and  possibly  not  for  ten. 

Tears  suffused  his  eyes  as  he  thought  of  his 
poor  old  father  and  Eph,  sitting  alone  before 
the  fire  in  the  desolate  winter  evenings. 

Perhaps  these  morbid  musings  were  ex- 
travagant and  egotistical  to  a  degree.  But 
they  were  sorrowfully  real ;  and  what  boy  is 
not  a  gentle  egotist? 

At  ten  o'clock  the  wagon  was  driven  up  to 
the  house,  and  Johnnie's  tin-bound  trunk  was 
silently  loaded  in.  Then  Aunt  Mary,  who 
had  come  "to  pack  him  off,"  brought  out 
two  boxes  of  lunch,  a  bag  of  apples,  a  bun- 
dle of  miscellany  and  a  faded  umbrella,  all  of 
which  she  grouped  about  the  trunk ;  and  then 
came  Johnnie,  himself,  in  linen  shirt  and  new 
clothes,  full  of  store-creases. 

As  he  came  down  the  walk  Pluto  sprang 
from  behind  a  clump  of  bushes,  and,  barking 
a  merry  challenge,  jumped  upon  his  boyish 
master,  with  a  view  to  provoking  a  frolic. 
Poor  Pluto  was  ignorant  of  the  pathos  of  the 
occasion.  Johnnie's  lips  trembled  as  he 
looked  down  into  the  dog's  laughing  eyes. 
194 


THE  FLEDGLING'S  FLIGHT 

Parting  from  that  ever  faithful  friend  was  not 
the  lightest  of  his  farewells. 

"Well,  sonny,  be  good  to  yourself,"  called 
Eph  carelessly  as  the  wagon  started.  Aunt 
Mary  smiled  a  cheery  "good-bye"  and  then 
threw  her  apron  over  her  face,  while  Mr. 
Winkle,  on  the  seat  at  Johnnie's  side,  clucked 
to  the  horses  so  vigorously  that  they  almost 
broke  into  a  run. 

And  Johnnie  Winkle,  the  little  boy  of  end- 
less dreams  and  schemes,  had  flown  from  the 
downy  home-nest,  never  to  abide  in  it  any 
more, 


195 


XXII 

LIFE   IN   A   GREAT   CITY 

THE  train,  after  groping  its  way  with  many 
stops  and  starts  among  endless  groups  of  cot- 
tages, of  flaming  factories  and  dingy  vacant 
lots,  ran  straight  into  a  huge,  dark  building 
at  last  and  came  to  a  standstill.  The  brake- 
man  called  the  name  of  the  great  city  famil- 
iarly— on  what  intimate  terms  with  it  he 
seemed  to  be  ! — and  Johnnie,  with  his  burden 
of  baggage,  crept  out  of  the  stuffy  car  into 
the  seething,  smoky  pandemonium  of  the 
Grand  Union  Depot. 

In  a  sort  of  trance  he  passed  through  the 
iron  gate  with  the  crowds,  and,  after  drifting 
about  in  various  eddies,  presently  found  him- 
self in  an  anteroom,  where  an  obliging  young 
man  took  charge  of  his  bundles. 

He  had  been  admonished  to  take  a  cab  di- 
rect to  Uncle  Andrew's,  but  it  occurred  to 

196 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

him  that  he  might  as  well  see  the  city  inde- 
pendently first. 

For  a  time  the  vast  magnificence  of  the 
metropolis  appalled  him ;  but,  within  an  hour, 
the  reaction  came,  and  he  proudly  felt  him- 
self to  be  an  integral  part  of  the  busy,  alert 
life  about  him.  Almost  unconsciously  he 
abandoned  the  shambling,  leisurely  gait  of 
rusticity,  and  began  to  step  forward  with  the 
erect,  nervous  manner  of  the  urban. 

Thus  he  traversed  street  after  street  with 
no  care  for  time,  and  no  particular  idea  as 
to  whither  he  was  going,  save  that  he  was 
journeying  from  the  old  past  into  the  novel 
and  hopeful  future.  His  immediate  plans 
were  indefinite,  but  he  had  a  firm  faith  in  ulti- 
mate success  of  some  sort. 

As  the  day  wore  on  he  began  to  deliberate. 
He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  just  what 
vocation  to  adopt  here  in  the  promising  city. 
This  vexing  question  had  been  left  unsettled 
when  he  came  away,  with  the  understanding 
that  he  would  consult  wise  Uncle  Andrew, 
and  then  write  home  before  accepting  any 
position. 

197 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

Johnnie  had  brought  with  him  wondrous 
letters  of  recommendation  and  certificates  of 
character,  signed  by  the  pastor  and  Squire 
Jeters,  which,  he  doubted  not,  had  magic 
power  to  unlock  any  gilded  door ;  but  it  per- 
plexed him  to  decide  just  where  to  apply. 

It  would  be  very  awkward  and  unfortunate, 
he  thought,  after  he  had  won  his  way  to  the 
presidency  of  some  great  railway  system  for 
instance,  to  find  that  its  duties  were  irksome 
and  uncongenial. 

Toward  evening  he  returned  to  the  depot 
for  his  baggage  and  was  much  incensed  when 
the  accommodating  young  man,  who  had 
volunteered  to  care  for  it,  demanded  pay. 
Here,  he  thought,  he  had  fallen  into  the 
clutches  of  one  of  "them  there  pesky  sharp- 
ers," that  Eph  had  cautioned  him  against, 
the  first  thing !  This  experience  caused  him 
to  ask  several  cab-drivers  their  price  and 
bargain  with  them  'shrewdly  before  engaging 
one  to  drive  him  to  Uncle  Andrew's. 

After  a  fortnight's  weary  search  for  an 
"opening,"  Johnnie  accepted  the  position  of 
clerk  in  Uncle  Andrew's  grocery  store.  It 
198 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

was  not  an  ideal  situation — not  just  what  he 
had  expected  to  obtain — but  it  was  better 
than  nothing. 

Uncle  Andrew  seemed  to  be  the  only  busi- 
ness man  in  all  the  great  city,  upon  whom 
the  gilt-edge  recommendations  made  any  im- 
pression. 

Johnnie  became  a  very  good  clerk  in  time, 
learning  to  concern  himself,  not  so  much  with 
whether  the  position  exactly  suited  him,  as 
with  whether  he  suited  the  position. 

As  the  winter  went  by  a  double  metamor- 
phosis worked  upon  him.  Nature  was  silently 
engaged  in  transforming  the  youth  into  the 
young  man,  while  art  busied  herself  more 
ostentatiously  in  making  a  city  gentleman  out 
of  the  callow  country  boy. 

Both  nature  and  art  succeeded  in  a  degree. 
He  grew  taller  and  the  downy  rudiments  of  a 
mustache  appeared  on  his  lip,  his  voice 
registered  lower  and  his  hands  and  feet  at- 
tained their  maximum  proportions.  Like- 
wise he  became  dressy  and  adopted  an  habitual 
suave  smile.  In  contact  with  customers  he 
developed  into  a  Chesterfield  of  courtesy, 
199 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

ever  bowing  and  thanking  them  in  a  way  that 
was  fine  to  see. 

Nor  did  art  stop  at  this.  She  led  him  into 
theaters  and  concert  halls  and  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
rooms,  put  cigarettes  into  his  mouth,  and 
parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  even  impelled 
him  to  mutilate  the  good  old  family  name, 
and  subscribe  himself  ' '  Yours  truly,  John 
Wynkle,"  when  writing  home. 

In  short,  art  inveigled  Johnnie  into  all  sorts 
of  dangerous  places  and  all  manner  of  ridicu- 
lous habits  and,  but  for  nature's  persistent 
care,  might  have  ruined  him  beyond  redemp- 
tion. 

But  towards  spring  he  tired  of  this  artificial 
life.  The  fever  of  fast  living  cooled  some- 
what, and,  as  his  mind  grew  clear,  his 
thoughts  returned  to  his  erstwhile,  forgotten 
country  home.  He  retired  earlier  each  even- 
ing, and  rose  at  daybreak  every  morning  to 
take  long,  solitary  walks  in  the  park. 

It  was  April,  according  to   the   calendar, 

but  the  season's  tokens  that  greeted  his  eyes 

were  few  and    feeble.     Where   were   all  the 

thrushes  and  meadow  larks  and  whip-poor- 

200 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

wills,  he  wondered,  and  the  wild  flowers  and 
the  tree-toads  and  frogs?  How  he  longed  to 
hear  a  genuine  frog  concert  again,  such  as 
used  to  pervade  the  April  twilight  at  home. 

Whenever  he  closed  his  eyes,  little  pictures 
seemed  to  pass  before  him — visions  of  old 
familiar  scenes  down  on  the  farm.  Some- 
times there  would  appear  a  certain  cozy 
corner  of  the  orchard.  Every  leaf  of  every 
tree  seemed  to  stand  out  boldly  against  the 
blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  minutest  details,  the 
bees  that  hummed  in  and  out  amid  the  foliage, 
the  tiny  ants  and  bugs  that  crept  through  the 
dew-wet  grass,  all  were  revealed  to  him  with 
life-like  distinctness. 

The  apple  trees  budded  and  blossomed, 
scenting  the  air  with  an  almost  palpable 
perfume;  little  green  apples  came  out  and 
hung  above  him,  and  cherries  grew  crimson 
just  beyond  his  reach.  Blooms  that  could 
not  be  gathered,  fruit  that  could  not  be 
plucked ! 

Now  and  then  he  would  fancy  himself  in 
the  heart  of  the  old  forest  again,  the  cool, 
quiet,  dimly-green  depths,  where  life  was  as 

201 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

calm,  as  vague  and  unvexed  as  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  The  winds  that  threw  the  tree- 
tops  into  verdant  billows  never  disturbed  the 
dark  under- world  beneath,  and  the  light  of 
the  warmest  sun  became  emerald-tinted  and 
liquid-cool  ere  it  reached  the  ground. 

Shadowy,  dreamy  sweet  was  the  recollec- 
tion of  these  rustic  retreats  to  Johnnie  now, 
and  their  peace  and  tranquillity,  which  he  had 
once  deprecated,  seemed  the  most  blessed 
thing  in  all  the  world.  Even  thoughts  of  the 
corn-field  were  not  altogether  unpleasant. 
Compared  to  the  drudgery  of  selling  grocer- 
ies the  labor  of  farming  seemed  an  absolute 
diversion. 

The  simple  truth  was  that  Johnnie  had 
grown  helplessly,  miserably  homesick. 

Uncle  Andrew  soon  observed  the  air  of  ab- 
straction with  which  Johnnie  dragged  through 
his  duties,  and  was  not  slow  to  guess  its 
cause.  Like  Johnnie  he  had  come  to  the  city 
many  years  before,  and  had  suffered  the  dis- 
tressing pangs  which  afflict  every  such  prodi- 
gal more  or  less,  and  he  knew  their  sovereign 
remedy. 

202 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

Homesickness,  of  all  diseases,  is  pre-emi- 
nently quickest  cured  by  suitable  change  oi 
scenery. 

One  evening  as  Johnnie  stood  in  the  door 
gazing  vacantly  down  the  street  and  humming 
"Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?''  Uncle  An- 
drew spoke:  "John,"  he  asked,  "don't 
you  think  this  close  confinement  is  injuring 
your  health  a  little?" 

Johnnie  immediately  improvised  a  deep, 
sonorous  cough,  and  answered  huskily, 
"Well,  since  you  mention  it,  uncle,  I  fear  it 
is." 

"And  don't  you  believe  a  few  weeks'  out- 
ing would  help  you?" 

"I'm  sure,  at  least  I  rather  think  it  would, ' ' 
Johnnie  replied,  trying  to  restrain  his  eager- 
ness. 

"I've  a  mind  to  send  you  up  north  a 
while,"  Uncle  Andrew  proceeded.  (John- 
nie's spirits  fell.) 

"Or  out  west."      (There  was  a  pause.) 

"Or  I  might  let  you  go  out  to  your  fath- 
er's,  if  you   think  that  would   answer,"   he 
concluded  with  deliberation. 
203 


LIFE  IN  A  GREAT  CITY 

Johnnie  thought  it  would.  There  was  a 
spring  on  his  father's  place  whose  waters  were 
distinctly  medicinal.  The  air  was  remarkably 
pure,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  sunshine 
out  that  way,  too.  He  was  sure  he  would 
regain  his  health  there. 

Early  the  next  morning  Johnnie  wended 
his  way  to  the  depot.  It  lacked  two  hours 
until  train  time,  but  he  hurried  breathlessly 
all  the  way.  He  was  simply  in  a  hurrying 
mood. 


204 


XXIII 

A   MISFIT 

HENCEFORTH  he  must  be  known  as  John. 
It  would  be  improper,  disrespectful,  almost 
abusive  to  speak  of  the  fine  young  gentleman 
from  the  city  as  Johnnie,  who  appeared  at 
the  Winkle  place  one  day  six  months  after 
Johnnie  went  away. 

Mr.  Winkle  and  Eph  were  fanning  them- 
selves on  the  front  porch  while  the  leisurely 
new  housekeeper  prepared  dinner,  when  they 
noticed  a  nobbily  dressed  stranger  approach- 
ing. In  one  hand  he  carried  a  slender  cane 
and  in  the  other  a  valise.  "Books  er  light- 
nin'  rods,"  observed  Eph,  "er,  mebbe, 
jew'lry."  Pluto,  who  had  been  lying  lazily 
in  the  shade,  suddenly  jumped  to  his  feet, 
sniffed  the  air  and  bounded  off  to  meet  the 
newcomer. 

205 


A  MISFIT 

"Better  git!  That  there  dawg  lives  on 
peddlers!"  shouted  Eph  while  Mr.  Winkle 
tried  to  call  Pluto  back.  But  Pluto,  instead 
of  attacking  the  stranger,  welcomed  him  by 
such  mad  waggings  of  the  tail  as  he  had  not 
indulged  in  for  months. 

Then  Eph,  whose  instinct  was  only  inferior 
to  the  dog's  in  acuteness,  gave  a  sudden 
whoop,  and  tossed  his  hat  into  the  air.  Mr. 
Winkle  started  to  his  feet  in  helpless  bewilder- 
ment. "Well,  durn  my  cats!"  cried  Eph, 
"If  that  ain't  Sonny." 

A  moment  later  there  was  a  general  hearty 
handshaking,  followed  by  an  awkward  pause. 
Then  ensued  a  forced  and  desultory  exchange 
of  those  common-place  questions  supposed  to 
put  people  at  their  ease.  It  was  comical  and 
it  was  pathetic  to  hear  father  and  son  ask, 
"How's  yore  health?"  and  "How's  yore 
Uncle  Andy?"  and  "Is  Aunt  Mary's  folks 
well?"  and  then  go  on  to  comment  on  the 
weather. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  John's  sojourn 
in  the  city,  although  not  long,  had  almost 
completely  covered  the  wonderful  chrysalis 
206 


A  MISFIT 

state.  He  had  crept  away  to  the  city  a  cat- 
erpillar and  had  flown  back  a  butterfly. 

To  his  father,  who  had  thought  of  him  all 
the  while  as  Johnnie,  it  was  no  light  shock  to 
have  him  return  unexpectedly  as  John. 

Dinner  served  to  dissipate  this  painful 
"company  air"  somewhat  and,  during  the 
afternoon,  father  and  son  grew  quickly  ac- 
quainted once  more ;  yet  a  new  respect  for 
each  other,  not  altogether  unpleasant,  per- 
sisted. 

Next  morning  at  dawn  John  was  up.  He 
put  on  his  old  clothes  again,  although  they 
seemed  much  shrunken,  and  discarded  shoes 
entirely.  He  went  joyfully  out  to  the  barn  to 
renew  old  friendships.  But  the  stock  greeted 
him  coldly.  Stooping  at  old  Brindle's  side, 
he  bored  his  head  into  her  flank  and  pro- 
ceeded to  milk  her ;  but  he  had  barely  begun 
when  she  kicked  him  over  heartlessly.  The 
horses  shied  at  him  and  the  chickens  fled  at 
his  approach. 

One  after  another  he  visited  all  the  old 
spots  of  which  he  had  dreamed  so  fondly. 
Everything  was  just  the  same ;  nothing  had 
207 


A  MISFIT 

changed.  He  affirmed  this  over  and  over  to 
himself.  Yet  nothing  seemed  to  affect  him  as 
he  had  expected  it  to  do — as  it  had  used  to 
do.  He  looked  across  the  purple  meadow,  up 
into  the  trees  and  listened  to  the  thrush's  fa- 
miliar song — listened  and  lingered  in  vain  for 
his  heart  to  wake  and  respond  as  of  yore. 
But  the  olden  glamour  was  gone. 

At  last  he  gave  up  and  went  slowly  back  to 
the  house,  bearing  a  weight  of  disappoint- 
ment that  would  never  leave  him. 

John  Winkle — let  us  say  Johnnie  just  once 
more — Johnnie  Winkle  had  become  a  man ; 
and  only  in  vaguest  dreams  would  the  pristine 
gladness  of  the  springtime  ever  thrill  his  heart 
again. 

Paradise  lay  behind  him.  Yet  one  supreme 
compensation  still  remained.  Like  the  first 
boy  who  became  a  man,  he  was  destined  to 
depart  from  the  Garden  of  Eden  not  alone, 
but  hand  in  hand  with  a  woman. 

"Say,  son,"  remarked  Eph  confidentially 
that  evening — even  he  had  dropped  the  dimin- 
utive form,  and  no  longer  said  "sonny" — 


208 


A  MISFIT 

"say,  son,  d'ye  recollect  the  time  ye  paid  a 
visit  to  ol'  Missus  Meadows?" 

John  had  not  forgotten. 

"But  how  did  you  know  about  it,  Eph?" 
he  asked. 

"Law,  I  allus  know'd  lots  more'n  I  let 
on,"  said  Eph.  "Ye  didn't  know  I  follered 
ye  all  the  way  thar  an'  back,  but  I  did — I 
did  so.  An'  I  know'd  it  wuzn't  the  ol' 
woman  ye  went  to  see,  too." 

John  smiled.  He  would  have  been  exas- 
perated if  he  had  known  this  at  the  time ;  but 
now  it  only  amused  him. 

"Well,  what  d'ye  think?"  Eph  continued, 
"that  there  same  young  lady — her  name  wuz 
Mary  Bell,  wuzn't  it?  Well,  sir;  she's  visit- 
in'  down  to  Tuckerses'  now." 

John  smiled  superiorly  again. 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  nothin' ;  nothin'  at  all,  only  she  ast 
me  if  you  recollected  her.  I  jist  thought  I'd 
ort  to  mention  it." 

This  information,  so  quaintly  imparted, 
had  little  apparent  effect  upon  John.  But  it 
was  on  his  mind  when  he  fell  asleep  that 
14  209 


A  MISFIT 

night;  visions  of  Mabel — the  angelic  little 
Mabel  of  old — mingled  with  his  dreams  and 
woke  him  in  the  morning. 

When  he  went  into  the  woods  that  day  a 
shadow  of  the  child-sweetheart  seemed  to 
cling  at  his  side.  He  tried  not  to  notice  it; 
struggled  to  throw  it  off  and  attempted  to 
lose  it  by  strolling  through  unfamiliar  parts  of 
the  forest.  But  it  would  not  be  abandoned, 
and  at  last  led  him  irresistibly  to  the  very 
nook  where  he  and  the  girl  had  loitered  to- 
gether so  long  ago. 

He  examined  the  spot  curiously,  half  scorn- 
fully, but  not  without  a  shade  of  regret. 
They  were  mere  foolish  children  together — 
he  and  Mabel — yet  they  were  happy  children, 
and  he  wished  he  could  enjoy  some  things 
now  as  he  did  then. 

He  recalled  how  he  had  once  carved  their 
initials  upon  a  certain  tree  near  by,  and, 
seeking  it  out,  found  the  letters  still  there. 

At  first  they  seemed  to  laugh  at  him  as 
they  met  his  eyes,  and  yet,  as  he  continued 
to  look,  seemed  to  weep  and  grow  faint  and 
blurred. 

210 


A  MISFIT 

As  he  returned  to  the  house  the  shadow 
still  clung  at  his  side;  clung  more  firmly, 
more  fondly  than  ever,  and  he  no  longer 
strove  to  shake  it  off. 

There  was  a  friendly  meeting  between  John 
and  Mabel  a  few  days  later.  Each  thought 
the  other  had  changed  greatly ;  and  each  se- 
cretly decided  that  the  change  was  for  the 
better.  John  was  surprised  to  learn  that  Ma- 
bel had  been  a  resident  of  a  city  suburb  for 
years,  and  that  during  his  stay  in  the  city  he 
had  been  separated  from  her  by  only  a  few 
miles. 

This  knowledge  rather  vexed  him  when  he 
thought  of  all  the  pleasant  hours  they  might 
have  spent  together  throughout  the  winter; 
but  when  he  thought  of  the  times  to  come, 
after  they  should  both  return  to  the  city,  he 
did  not  mind.  For  he  intended  to  go  back 
soon  again.  The  country  had  become  as 
great  a  misfit  for  him  as  his  old  clothes. 

In  truth,  having  once  been  forsaken  by  him 
it  had  now  finally  disowned  him  forever. 

When  once  more  the  afternoon  train  la- 
bored into  the  Grand  Union  Depot  with  John 
211 


A  MISFIT 

as  one  of  its  passengers,  he  showed  little  evi- 
dence of  excitement  or  awe.  He  had  not 
gazed  out  of  the  window  much  during  the 
journey.  His  time  had  been,  and  was  still, 
thoroughly  occupied  with  looking  after  his 
traveling  companion,  an  elegant  young  lady. 
He  escorted  her  through  the  crowd  and  at  the 
door  handed  her  into  a  cab  with  the  assurance 
that  he  would  call  on  her  very  soon. 

Some  knowing  people,  whose  gaze  was  at- 
tracted by  them,  thought  they  were  brother 
and  sister;  and  other  more  knowing  people 
thought  they  were  not. 


212 


XXIV 

THE  MIRACLE   OF  MARRIAGE 

IT  was  four  years  later,  and  John  Wynkle 
had  ceased  to  be  Johnnie  Winkle  so  long  ago 
and  had  become  such  a  busy  man  that  he 
seldom  recalled  the  other  life  down  on  the 
old  farm.  He  was  a  partner  in  the  grocery 
business  now,  and  a  full-fledged  and  impor- 
tant citizen.  He  had  cast  his  first  vote,  had 
paid  taxes  and  joined  a  civic  club.  Moreover 
he  had  been  "spoken  of"  as  a  possible  candi- 
date for  alderman,  thereby  having  been  ca- 
joled into  subscribing  liberally  to  the  cam- 
paign fund.  And  what  further  evidence  of 
manhood  and  respected  citizenship  could  be 
required? 

Yet  a  new  dignity  was  soon  to  be  assumed 

by  him — one  before  which  all  others  sank  into 

insignificance.     He  was  about  to  be  married. 

That  was  why,  although  a  good  citizen  and 

213 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

a  safe  and  sound  young  man,  he  was  known 
to  be  at  present  visionary,  flighty,  and  totally 
irresponsible;  that  was  why,  as  he  sat  at  his 
desk,  he  chewed  the  end  of  his  penholder  into 
splinters,  spilled  ink  everywhere  and  tore  up 
sheet  after  sheet  of  paper  in  an  attempt  to 
write  a  suitable  and  intelligible  letter  to  his 
father. 

Of  course  one  of  the  conventional  cards 
telling  how  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  G.  W.  Meadows 
request  your  presence,"  etc.,  would  be  for- 
warded, but  that  would  not  suffice.  "Dear 
Father,"  he  began  once,  "I  have  the  honor 
to  inform  you  that  I  am  to  be  wedded  on 

,  and  to  request  your  attendance," 

but  that  was  too  formal.  Again  he  wrote, 
'  'Well,  I  am  to  be  married.  Strange  but  true ! 
And  I  want  you  and  Aunt  Mary  and  Eph  and 
Pluto — "  but  that  was  not  formal  enough. 

At  last,  however,  he  did  succeed  in  com- 
posing a  semi-rational  note,  in  which  he  hoped 
all  his  old  friends  would  come,  and,  at  the 
time,  he  really  did  hope  this,  too,  for  he  was 
about  to  be  married. 

The  strange  accidents  that  befell  John  at 
214 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

this  period — the  mistakes  he  made  and  the 
ridiculous  antics  he  cut — were  innumerable. 
Indeed  the  mental  status  of  a  young  man  in 
this  predicament  can  never  be  successfully 
exploited.  That  it  borders  upon  paranoia, 
dementia  and  melancholia  at  times  can  not  be 
doubted. 

Hysteria — if  men  could  have  hysteria — 
might  be  an  approximate  diagnosis.  Such 
persons  do  a  great  many  unaccountable 
things,  and  develop  peculiar  traits.  Perhaps 
the  deed  itself  is  often  unaccountable.  But 
the  dreams  devolving  upon  it — they  are  di- 
vine !  And  if  these  young  men  exhibit  odd 
and  contradictory  phases  of  mind,  possibly  it 
is  because  the  mind  is  for  the  time  in  com- 
plete abeyance  to  the  heart,  because  mental- 
ity has  given  way  to  sentiment.  Even  in 
these  end-of-the  century  days  men  are  wont 
to  resign  themselves  to  dreams  of  love,  just 
as  if  such  delusions  had  not  been  tried  by 
countless  cynics  and  found  vaporous  and 
evanescent. 

But  John  Wynkle's  love  was  different  from 
the  kind  heretofore  known  upon  earth.  It 
215 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

was  deeper  and  higher  and  stronger  and  more 
eternal.  He  knew  it  and  Mabel  knew  it; 
what  matter  if  the  cynics  did  not? 

Their  courtship  had  been  personally  con- 
ducted throughout.  They  had  not  met  in  a 
ball-room ;  had  not  made  love  behind  screens 
of  green-house  plants  to  the  sound  of  waltz 
music  while  chaperones  hovered  near  with 
fiercely  ruffled  feathers,  like  brooding  hens. 

Night  after  night  Mrs.  Meadows  had  sur- 
rendered her  modest  parlor  to  them  and  kept 
herself  discreetly  out  of  sight.  She  could 
trust  John  Winkle,  she  told  her  neighbors ;  if 
she  could  not  she  would  not  have  permitted 
her  daughter  to  keep  company  with  him  at 
all. 

Certainly  John  and  Mabel  had  become 
thoroughly  acquainted,  and  perhaps  their  love 
was  different  from  the  passion  of  some  of 
their  aristocratic  neighbors. 

Every  twilight,  now,  John  passed  in  Ma- 
bel's presence.  Almost  every  morning  he 
ran  out  to  tell  her  something  or  to  ask  her 
something  he  had  forgotten  the  night  before. 
Often  they  spent  hours  together  at  the  win- 
216 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

dow  in  silence,  watching  the  dusk  turn  to 
darkness — watching  the  stars  as  they  took 
their  unalterable  positions  in  the  sky,  and  life 
and  love  took  on  new  and  mysterious  mean- 
ings as  they  watched. 

Sometimes  they  conversed  upon  the  most 
unromantic  subjects.  Perhaps  Mabel  would 
ask  her  lover  solicitously  whether  he  was  fond 
of  muffles,  or  if  he  liked  pan-cakes.  Nor  was 
this  a  procedure  to  be  laughed  at,  for  of  such 
trifles  is  the  kingdom  of  domestic  bliss. 

The  wedding  day  came  at  last,  and  with  it, 
bright  and  early,  the  three  best  friends  of  lit- 
tle Johnnie  Winkle  of  old, — his  father,  Aunt 
Mary  and  Eph.  They  came  with  the  scent 
of  rustic  roses  upon  them,  with  the  manners 
and  dress  of  rural  life, — unchanged  by  fash- 
ion, altered  but  little  by  time.  Into  the  gro- 
cery they  filed  with  hearty  laugh  and  hand- 
shake, each  bearing  a  mysterious  parcel,  for 
which  Aunt  Mary  accounted  by  shrilly  whis- 
pering, "Weddin'  presents!" 

At  any  other  time  John  might  have  been 
embarrassed  by  their  unexpected  appearance, 

217 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

but  now  he  was  only  pleased  and  a  trifle 
scared . 

All  took  dinner  with  him  at  Uncle  An- 
drew's. Aunt  Mary  contributed  sundry  eat- 
ables for  the  occasion  fresh  from  the  farm, 
which  she  had  remembered  as  favorites  of 
Johnnie's. 

And  what  an  array  of  by-gone  incidents  of 
John's  early  life  was  called  up  and  reviewed 
over  the  plates ! 

Each  visitor  had  brought  along  some  par- 
ticular anecdote  concerning  Johnnie.  First 
his  father  told  of  Johnnie's  early  passion  for 
"projecks,"  recounting  several  of  his  disas- 
trous experiments. 

Then  Aunt  Mary  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  gave  an  entertaining  account  of  how 
Johnnie  had  once  played  circus  performer  for 
the  delectation  of  the  minister.  "We  wuz  all 
settin'  there,"  she  said,  "an'  the  preacher  a 
arguin'  with  his  maw  about  goin'  to  shows, 
which  she  wuz  upholdin'  an'  had  the  best  of 
it,  too,  when,  lo  an'  behold,  here  come  John- 
nie— an'  you  ought  to  seen  him !  Without  a 
stitch  on  to  mention — nothin'  but  some  old  un- 
218 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

dergarments" — here  she  puther  handkerchief 
to  her  face  and  shook  the  floor  with  ponder- 
ous suppressed  laughter, — "Goodness,  he 
wuz  a  sight! — an'  there  he  wuz  a-turnin' 
somersets — an'  there  we  all  wuz,  an'  his  poor 
maw  scandalized  speechless!" 

Next  Eph,  who  had  been  non-committal 
and  rather  ill  at  ease  heretofore,  began  to 
giggle  and  holding  his  knife  aloft  to  command 
attention,  introduced  his  choicest  tale.  He 
related  how  he  had  known  all  along  that 
"Sonny  wuz  tuck  with  the  Meadows  girl"; 
how  he  had  followed  the  boy  on  his  first  visit 
to  Meadowses' ;  and  had  peeped  in  at  the 
window  "unbeknownst  an'  seen  the  ol'  lady 
entertainin'  him  'stid  o'  Mary  Bell." 

Then  they  all  laughed  heartily  again,  John 
heartiest  of  all. 

The  wedding  ceremony  passed,  as  do  they 
all.  The  assemblage  in  the  Meadows  parlor 
chatted  and  laughed  gaily,  until  some  one 
whispered,  "Here  they  come!"  then  there 
was  a  flutter,  a  hush,  a  gentle  prayer,  a  few 
brief  words,  a  blessing — sobs  here  and  there, 
and  a  painful  silence. 

219 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

The  minister  broke  the  spell  soon  with  jolly 
congratulations,  and  then  Mrs.  Meadows  and 
Aunt  Mary,  wiping  their  eyes  and  laughing, 
pressed  forward. 

The  good  old  country  custom — possibly 
unsanitary,  but  sweet — of  kissing  the  bride 
was  inaugurated,  and  Eph  was  one  of  the  first 
to  take  advantage  of  it.  The  room  buzzed 
with  the  conventional  comments,  "How  love- 
ly she  looked  ! "  and  "Did  you  notice  how  he 
trembled,  poor  fellow ! ' ' 

A  lavish  dinner  (which  Aunt  Mary  insisted 
on  calling  supper)  was  served,  in  the  course 
of  which  somebody  addressed  the  bride  as 
Mrs.  Winkle  and  she  pretended  not  to  hear; 
and  everybody  laughed  at  the  incident  just  as 
if  it  had  not  occurred  at  all  the  weddings  they 
had  ever  attended. 

Neither  bride  nor  groom  partook  heartily 
of  the  dinner.  The  ethereal  atmosphere  sur- 
rounding them  rendered  the  veriest  "angel 
food"  coarse  and  common.  Moreover  John 
in  particular  was  still  badly  frightened.  He 
had  gone  through  it  all  in  a  hypnotic  state  of 
terror  quaking  with  a  strange  unfounded  fear. 
220 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  MARRIAGE 

It  was  only  after  they  had  departed  amid  a 
shower  of  good-byes  and  rice,  and  were  safely 
started  on  their  "  tour,"  that  his  senses  re- 
turned, and  he  began  to  realize  what  he  had 
done.  And  then  the  pride  and  tenderness 
and  self-importance  and  general  buoyancy 
which  took  possession  of  him — it  was  simply 
intoxicating. 

As  the  train  rumbled  on,  exhausted  by  the 
excitement  of  it  all,  the  girl  at  his  side — his 
wife! — closed  her  eyes  and  leaned  her  head 
coyly  against  his  shoulder;  and,  looking 
down  into  her  sweet,  confiding  face,  the  only 
regret  of  John's  was  that  his  mother  could 
not  have  lived  to  see  his  bride. 


231 


XXV 

THE   BRAND   NEW   BOY 

THERE  had  been  babies  before,  there  would 
be  babies  hereafter,  but  never  such  a  baby  as 
this  one.  His  precocity  was  established  with 
his  first  unterrified  and  highly  intelligent 
glance  at  the  ceiling ;  his  beauty  was  admit- 
ted by  all  from  the  beginning,  and  his  amaz- 
ing lustiness  and  strength  were  demonstrated 
by  the  way  he  squealed  and  squirmed.  There 
could  be  no  question  about  it — he  was  an  ex- 
traordinary infant. 

A  great  many  burning  questions  did  arise 
about  him  however.  In  the  first  place,  it  was 
a  matter  of  earnest  debate  as  to  whom  he 
most  resembled. 

Every  baby,  as  soon  as  born,  resembles 
somebody.  Sometimes  it  is  its  father,  some- 
times a  great  grandparent  or  an  uncle  or  a 
second  cousin,  but  resemble  some  one,  it 
222 


THE  BRAND  NEW  BOY 

must  and  will.  Each  acquaintance  who 
called  expressed  an  opinion  upon  this  vital 
point — because  it  was  expected  of  him. 

There  are  certain  well-known  though  un- 
written laws  governing  such  cases.  In  view- 
ing a  baby  for  the  first  time  it  is  one's  duty 
to  begin  by  speaking  of  its  sweetness,  then 
to  mention  its  plumpness,  and  then  to  com- 
mit one's  self  as  to  what  or  whom  it  looks 
like. 

Ignorant  or  careless  bachelors  have  made 
unforgiving  enemies  of  former  friends  by 
neglecting  to  observe  these  rules. 

Grandma  Meadows  thought  the  baby  was 
the  very  image  of  its  papa.  Uncle  Andrew 
held  to  the  opinion  that  it  was  the  picture  of 
Mabel;  while  Eph,  when  he  made  a  pilgrim- 
age from  the  country,  expressly  to  see  it, 
said  it  "looked  right  smart"  like  his  sister 
did  when  an  infant. 

Another  momentous  question  related  to  the 
exact  color  of  the  baby's  eyes.  Every  morn- 
ing the  parents  made  renewed  ocular  exam- 
inations, and  each  time  discovered  a  different 
hue.  Then  they  were  greatly  perplexed  as 
223 


THE  BRAND  NEW  BOY 

to  whether  it  would  have  curls  and  what  its 
complexion  would  be. 

They  dressed  the  infant  in  a  weight  of 
flannels  that  would  have  discouraged  a  really 
sentient  being,  and  John  brought  it  every- 
thing purchasable — rattles,  rings  and  dolls, 
which  he  would  wave  in  its  face  wildly  by  the 
hour,  trying  to  teach  it  to  "notice  things." 

In  fact,  the  home-life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
John  Winkle  was  given  entirely  to  develop- 
ing the  wondrous  child.  A  daintily  bound 
"Album"  was  purchased  in  which  to  record 
minutely  every  step  of  its  onward  progress. 

This  unique  book  had  blank  pages  for  the 
photographs  and  signatures  of  parents  and 
nurse;  a  space  in  which  to  register  the  baby's 
weight,  color  and  condition ;  numerous  places 
for  its  pictures  at  different  ages,  a  blank  page 
for  it  to  walk  across  in  taking  its  first  step, 
and  a  memorandum  in  which  to  record  its 
first  laugh,  its  first  attack  of  colic,  first  tooth 
and  first  spasm. 

When  not  engaged  in  playing  with  the 
baby,  John  and  Mabel  were  usually  studying 
this  record  or  talking  about  it.  Nor  was  the 
224 


THE  BRAND  NEW  BOY 

little  tyrant  content  with  monopolizing  its 
parents'  attention,  but  must  needs  entertain 
every  casual  guest  that  called. 

"Did  you  hear  about  that  awful  fire  last 
night?"  Uncle  Andrew  would  ask,  coming  in 
breathlessly. 

"No,"  John  would  answer  with  a  half- 
hearted attempt  to  appear  interested.  '  'Where 
was — look!  Did  you  see  that  smile?  Toot- 
sy wootsy,  there,  now!  Oh,  you  didn't 
look  quick  enough.  Let's  try  him  again," 
and  he  would  contort  his  features  madly  and 
gouge  the  infant  prodigy  in  the  stomach  with 
the  fond  hope  of  eliciting  another  rare  and 
wonderful  ' '  goo-goo . ' ' 

And  the  fire  and  all  the  unimportant  tire- 
some world  outside  was  forgotten,  was  re- 
nounced and  tossed  scornfully  aside  in  favor 
of  the  one  thing  worth  while  in  the  whole  uni- 
verse— the  bouncing,  brand  new  boy. 

Ever  with  the  tenderest  solicitude  the  anx- 
ious parents  watched  over  the  little  cherub, 
waking  or  sleeping.  How  the  mother's  heart 
palpitated  if  it  happened  to  sneeze.  How 

15  225 


THE  BRAND  NEW  BOY 

the  father  faltered  if   it  chanced   to  cough. 
How  unhappy  were  they  both  when  it  cried ! 

Its  slightest  indisposition  rilled  them  with 
wild  alarm.  Once  the  doctor  was  called  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  because  the  baby 
didn't  breathe  right. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  most  precious  posses- 
sion that  earthly  life  may  know,  the  brightest 
jewel  ever  given  into  human  keeping ;  and  so 
was  John  once,  and  Mabel,  and  humble  Eph, 
and  so  are  all. 

One  important  matter,  intimately  connected 
with  the  new  boy,  remained  a  subject  of  dis- 
pute for  months.  This  was  his  name.  He 
had  come  into  the  world  incognito,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  name  anywhere  that  suited 
him.  The  back  of  the  dictionary  was  searched 
through,  the  bible  was  exhausted  and  the  long 
roll  of  relatives,  living  and  dead,  was  called 
to  no  avail. 

Grandma  insisted  on  an  unusual  name,  papa 
wanted  something  common  and  the  mother 
longed  to  call  him  something  musical  and 
sweet.  A  combination  of  all  these  qualities 
could  not  be  found. 

226 


THE  BRAND  NEW  BOY 

But  as  the  baby  grew  more  and  more  into 
the  semblance  of  a  real,  live  boy,  the  matter 
at  last  settled  itself.  It  became  evident  that 
there  was  one  name — and  only  one — that 
would  set  properly  upon  a  boy  with  such 
merry  blue  eyes,  such  a  saucily  puckered 
mouth  and  a  countenance  so  quaintly  quizzi- 
cal, so  mischievous,  so  innocent  and  bland — 
looking  upon  this  complexity  of  features, 
they  could  only  call  him  JOHNNIE. 


THE   END. 


227 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'66(G5530s4)458 


13321 

Laughlin,  E.O, 
Johnnie. 


PS3523 
A82U 
J6 
1899 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


